Restoration and Revelation
by DJ Sparkles
Summary: COMPLETED OCTOBER 9 2005. Sequel to Revolution and Retribution. The restoration of Gondor after Aragorn has retaken his throne, and an old enemy is moving. RATING CHANGE! Rated for violence, strong emotion and mention of rape. NOT SLASH.
1. Default Chapter

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground.  And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter One**

**(The King's Chambers)**

The King of Gondor sat on his balcony and mourned the loss of his wife.

It was a ritual he had come to practice more and more often of late. He missed her, oh, how he missed her. She had been his light, his heart, his very soul; yet she had been taken from him. Evil had come to Gondor, and she had paid the ultimate price, desperately fighting to either save her children or avenge them.

He could not reconcile himself with her loss. Elves could fade from grief, and for a brief moment, he wished he were one of the Eldar. But he was a mere mortal, of the race of Men, and so could not simply fade from life. Nor would Arwen forgive him for the selfish act of suicide.

His thoughts wandered, as though shying away from the fact that she was no longer by his side. Images crowded through his mind, most of them from the recent past. Boromir, miraculously returned from the dead, at the whim of a mad wizard. The Hobbits, rising to aid him once more, showing true friendship and loyalty. Eomer, Legolas, Gimli… Faramir and his wife, Eowyn… and last, but certainly not least, Tanathel.

Tanathel was another sore spot in his heart. He had met the brash young Ranger when she saved him from death at Amon Sul, and he had come to respect and admire her dedication and loyalty very quickly. That she had been so badly wounded, helping him to regain his throne, did not sit well with him.

Nor did the words he was hearing from the healers. Her leg had been badly torn, just above the knee; she was lucky to still have the use of it. And it remained to be seen whether she would need a cane permanently, or not. Her limp was still quite pronounced, and the healers were beginning to worry about infection. Tanathel had steadfastly refused to return to them, claiming duty during the day and fatigue during the evening. Something would have to be done. She promised faithfully that she was continuing the treatments they had given her, yet she would not return to the Houses of Healing for them to check it. All very strange.

Nothing would be decided at this time of night. He rose and went inside, to his lonely bed, to try and capture what rest he could.

**(The Academy Archery Range)**

Tanathel drew back again, aiming for the barely visible target in the darkness. She sighted carefully, and let fly.

The arrow thudded home in the heart of the target and she whirled, alerted by a noise behind her, her dagger drawn and ready.

"A bit late for archery practice, isn't it?" Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor's Army, relieved her of her blade quickly and stepped back. "Tanathel, it is after midnight. You should be in bed; your first set of trainees will be here in the morning."

"I couldn't sleep." Even to herself, Tanathel sounded surly. "And it never hurts to practice in adverse conditions. Not all warfare is conducted in bright daylight, Captain-General. Eventually I will have the cadets out here in the middle of the night, learning to aim with no light."

Boromir chuckled softly, and then he became serious once more. He sat down on the nearest bench and regarded her seriously. "Talk with me a moment, if you would," he said quietly. "What is this I hear, that you have decided you need no more healing? That is folly, Lieutenant. You should see them as soon as it is light."

"They can do no more for me." Tanathel's voice was clipped and precise. "I have continued as they said, and exercise the leg daily. I use the salves they provided. What more could they do?"

"That is not for you to decide, Lieutenant," Boromir ordered, rising from the bench in full command mode. "You will report to the Houses of Healing at first light, and no more excuses." He let his voice soften as he took her hand. "You are a good soldier, Tanathel, but you must learn to take care of yourself better. You can better serve Gondor by keeping yourself in one piece."

She jerked her hand away from him quickly and turned away, hoping he couldn't see the hurt and anger in her eyes through the darkness. "Serve Gondor? Do you think I don't know this position is merely to salve my wounded pride? It is the only place I am _fit_ for, now. I can no longer protect my King as I should, can no longer even stand properly at attention. Yes, I can train these boys to shoot well, and they will serve Gondor in my stead. But it is not the same, not the same as riding out and knowing that I am helping to defeat the enemy with my own hands." Her voice broke and she choked back a sob.

He turned her to face him, uncertain of how to comfort her. Had she been a man under his command, his path would have been clear; but she was a woman and he was unused to dealing with those. Oh, he'd done his fair share of wenching in his past! But this was no simple tavern wench, no, indeed. She was a warrior, through and through.

"It is an honorable charge, to train those who will fight and die to protect Gondor, one that you should embrace rather than scorn," he said gently as he tipped her face up. "And perhaps it is not to be your fate for long. If the healers can help you, let them. Do not give up hope."

"If there is hope left, I cannot see it," she murmured as she let her head fall against his shoulder. Shudders wracked her slender frame as she began to cry, though she made no sound.

It only made sense to put his arms around her, so he did. He held her as she wept, bitter tears of frustration and pain. Then he swept her up into his arms as the storm passed and carried her into the building, placed her gently into her bed and doused the lamp, and took his leave.


	2. Chapter Two

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Two**

The morning dawned bright and clear, and Aragorn groaned as he rolled over to greet it. It seemed obscene, somehow, that the day should be so beautiful when his thoughts were so dark.

He greeted his esquire with the usual smile and nod, allowed the man to dress him and then shooed him away. It did not help his appetite, which was poor enough already, when Dalan hovered to watch him consume every morsel. It was almost like living in some bizarre form of prison at times, he mused. Watched, day and night, for fear he would perhaps break into a thousand pieces, or simply disappear into thin air.

He supposed it was a natural reaction to his grief. At one point, he _had_ considered trying to join Arwen. Only his innate sense of honor and responsibility had changed his mind. It would be a betrayal of all she had given up so freely for him to suicide, and he couldn't do it.

A tap at his chamber door distracted him from his thoughts and he welcomed the interruption. "Enter," he called as he seated himself.

Peregrin Took stepped into the room, looking dignified and serious in his black and silver livery. "Good morning, Sire," he chirped happily. "I have your list of appointments for the day, courtesy of the Steward, and you're to start with a Council meeting at your convenience."

"Thank you, Pippin," Aragorn replied with a smile. "You are more than a mere page, and Faramir knows this. So why send you? A member of the Tower Guard, carrying messages?"

"Oh, I volunteered." Nothing could keep the Hobbit's good spirits dampened for long, and he gave Aragorn a cheeky grin. "Now, are you going to finish that sausage?"

**(Tanathel's Quarters/The Academy Infirmary)**

There was a sharp rap at her door, followed quickly by it being flung open and Boromir filling the doorway. "Did I not give you an order, Tanathel?" he began, only to stop in consternation and go immediately to her side.

He touched her brow and swore inventively. "You're burning, Tanathel, couldn't you have listened to them?" He gathered her up from the floor where she had fallen and moved out of the room, shouting orders along the way. "Hirgon, take word to the cadets there will be no archery practice today; have them see the Armsmaster instead. Dervil, run and find Healer Calas, bring him to the Infirmary. Don't take no for an answer. Corvin, you go to the Citadel, give his Highness my apologies but I will not be in Council this day."

He laid her down on the first empty bed he found and got cool water to wash her face with. "Eru, woman, did you have to be so stubborn?" he whispered as he bathed her face and neck, trying to cool the fever. He left the cloth in place on her forehead and with a silent apology, stripped her breeches to look at the wound on her leg. This was no time to be observing proprieties.

The left leg was significantly swollen, just above the knee. The wound itself was seeping, an ugly, viscous fluid that smelled foul to him. He hesitated.

Boromir was no healer, but he knew what had to be done first. He had to clean the wound, and it would not be pleasant for either of them. He drew his knife and quickly opened the still-healing wound, allowing some of the vile poison to flow sluggishly from it, trying to ignore the hoarse cry of pain the action brought forth.

He was applying warm cloths to the swelling when Calas arrived, out of breath and quite flustered. "My lord, what --- oh, no."

Calas hastened to the bedside and took a practiced look at the wound. "This will need all my skill, my lord. If she is to keep the leg, it will need constant supervision." He turned to his apprentice and began naming herbs and instruments that he would need. "You, my lord, will bring me everything she says she has been using on this."

Boromir nodded and hurried away, returning moments later with the small jars of salve and leaving them in the healer's view. "What else can I do?" he asked quietly.

"You may take yourself from the room, my lord; there is nothing else you may do. I will know in a matter of hours whether or not the leg will need to be removed."

Boromir nodded and withdrew, only to place a chair near the doorway and dispatch another page to bring his work to him. He would wait here, until he knew what would happen to his friend. He could do his job as well from a desk in the hall as from his office.


	3. Chapter Three

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Three**

Corvin stepped into the Council Chamber silently and kept to the rear wall, watching as everyone took their seats. He remained in the shadows until the roll was being called and stepped forward purposefully. "The Captain-General's apologies, but he will not be attending Council today. What message shall I take in return, my lords?"

Aragorn gave the boy a curious glance. "And do you know what ails the Captain-General?" he asked quietly. It must be something serious, for Boromir would never lightly disregard his king's commands. "Is he ill?"

"No, your Highness," Corvin answered politely. "But he has taken Lieutenant Tanathel to the Infirmary, and I believe he wishes to wait until she has been tended."

"Give my regards to Boromir and ask that he attend me at his earliest convenience," Aragorn replied. He waited only until the boy had departed to turn his attention back to his assembled Council. Many seats were vacant, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Those would need to be filled, but it remained to be seen how many of Gondor's loyal nobles remained. The toll the fighting had taken on his City was still being tallied; but at least the dead had been laid to rest. The final list of the dead was still being written. "Now, gentlemen, what business is there that must be handled today?"

Daerlin stood and spoke briskly. "I believe our first consideration should be this lieutenant of whom you speak so highly, Sire." His words conveyed both courtesy and a measure of hostility. "I am uncertain of the wisdom of encouraging this woman."

"And do you refer to the fact that she is female, Daerlin, or that she is Haradrim?" Aragorn kept the tone light, but he was going to find out what was going on here. "If you question her loyalty, I would lay that question to rest. She had every opportunity while we were in the wild to do away with me, and none the wiser. Her loyalty to me is unquestionable."

"Actually, my lord, I do not question her loyalty. The fact that she is Haradrim does disturb me, but that is because we have fought them for so long. It is of no matter." He cast his gaze at the table, as though gathering strength, and then gave his king a direct gaze. "But to encourage her as a warrior is folly. She should be honored, yes, but perhaps a ceremonial position would suit her more clearly."

"Folly, you say?" Aragorn rose, carefully keeping his face blank. "Was it folly that my Steward saw her worth and sent her to protect me in the wild? Was it folly that she allowed Saruman to torture her, in an attempt to conceal my return to Gondor? Was it folly that she fought her way, inch by inch, into the very Hall of Kings to help me regain my throne?" He allowed the barest hint of his fury to show. "Would you say also that it is folly to allow Boromir to return to his post as Captain-General? Nay, I see in your eyes that you do not. And have you decided that I have taken leave of my senses? Again, I see not. Then allow me my whims, Daerlin. I have awarded her commission, I have placed her as I see fit. Next order of business, please."

Another man stood then, Cirin. "The next order of business, Your Highness, should perhaps be discussion of your Heir. It is acceptable for Lord Faramir to stand as Heir, temporarily. But when might we expect to see a true heir?"

Aragorn rocked back on his heels, stunned by the question. How _dare_ they question his decision? He wished Faramir were present, but he'd detailed his Steward to investigate some rumors that had the sound of truth, rumors that did not sit well with Aragorn, rumblings of war to the South. He tried to rein in his anger, but it flared white-hot in his chest, resisting all attempts to bring it under control. One thought kept beating at him: How _dare_ he?

His hands went flat against the table with a solid thunk. His face was stark in his fury; his features appeared etched from some ancient stone. "How _dare_ you?" he stormed, his words clipped and precise even in his rage. "My decision is final. There will be _no_ other in Arwen's place! Faramir will stand as my Heir, now, and at the hour of my death. It is not open to negotiation or even discussion. _I will never put another in Arwen's place._"

He strode angrily from the chamber, hardly caring where his steps took him in his wrath.

**(The Academy Infirmary)**

Tanathel heard nothing of the discussions taking place over her bed; she wandered in the past, thinking of her father.

_"You must not grip the blade so tightly, child. It should be an extension of your hand. You have practiced the killing move, now use the katana as a part of you."_

_"But Papa, it doesn't work!" the child she had been complained. "The blade is too heavy!"_

_"It will get lighter, Tanathel, I promise you. Now, do it again. And again. Keep practicing until you get it right. You must know these things, child, to defend your mother if I am called away."_

Fragments of memory danced in her fever-trapped mind and she moaned, unable to escape.

_"Focus, girl!" Her father's voice rang with authority. "You will never learn if you do not focus! All Haradrim learn to fight, Tanathel. Would you disgrace me by not learning? Focus!"_

_"Get up. Your whole body is a weapon, Tanathel. You must learn how to use it as one."_

_"Good, good! You have an excellent eye. Archery will be your best skill, other than the quiet killing. With that, you have made me proud. Keep practicing the sword, girl, and I will be most proud."_

She moaned again, a hopeless, lost sound, and the watchers glanced at each other worriedly. "The wound festers, my lord, regardless of the treatments I try," Calas said softly. "I have even tried the _athelas_ leaves, but I fear I have not the knack with them."

"_Athelas,_" Boromir murmured as he gently stroked the hair back from Tanathel's brow. "What then remains to be done?"

"Nothing, my lord. I am afraid it will have to come off. The infection is too far spread." Calas turned sad eyes to his friend. "Understand that I would not lightly undertake such a mutilation, Boromir. But I feel it is the only way to keep her alive."

"Leave us, Calas," Boromir replied with some asperity. "I will make the decision. Go, and eat something. You've labored here without rest or food, so go and refresh yourself. If I allow you to undertake this, you will need your strength." He watched the man leave, his own heart heavy in his chest. If this wound could fester so, how much more the raw flesh of a stump? No, there had to be another way!

"Tanathel, wake up," he urged as his hand rested on her hair. "You must wake up!" But she gave him no hint that she had heard him, locked in her memories.

A thought occurred to him and he went to the door, calling for a page. "Corvin, good. What was the king's response?"

"That you were to attend him at your earliest convenience, but I don't know if you can, sir. He stormed out of the Council Chamber shortly after, headed who knows where." Corvin looked a little disturbed; he'd always known the king as an even-tempered man. To see him storm off in a fury was highly unusual.

"Corvin, listen very carefully. You have to find him, and when you do, bring him here." He had helped Eowyn, brought her back from the very brink of death. Perhaps he could do the same for Tanathel; it was the last viable option Boromir could see. "Tell him the healers want to remove Tanathel's leg. I won't let that happen."

Corvin took in the message, his eyes wide. This was a very important duty! "Of course, sir. Don't you let them hurt her like that, sir, please! She promised to teach me archery when I was older, whether I made the Academy or not." He scurried away, determined not to fail.


	4. Chapter Four

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Four**

Aragorn entered the Academy quickly, headed for the Infirmary. The sound of steel clearing leather only hastened his steps. "What happens here?" he thundered as he took in the tableau at Tanathel's door.

Boromir stood at the door, blade in hand, looking for all the world like he would attack the first person who tried to pass. Calas was looking as though he would try to get past the determined Hurin, but wasn't quite brave enough. Boromir spoke, keeping his eye on the Healer. "He wishes to remove her leg, my lord. Surely there is another way!"

"Gentlemen, this is not helping Tanathel. Both of you, cease this immediately." Aragorn held up a hand to forestall argument. "There will be no surgery done without need, nor will there be a need for bloodshed in this hall." His temper was already hot enough; it did not need anyone to fan the flames. He stepped past them into the room and took in Tanathel's flushed face, the wound that lay bare, the open windows, and the surgical instruments already laid out.

He settled himself next to her, one hand on her fevered brow, the other on her wrist. A bare moment later, he raised his eyes to the others. "I do not think the leg should be removed, Calas. Fetch me _athelas_ and warm water, and perhaps we may yet save it."

Calas gave Aragorn the leaves from his kit and settled next to him. "Your pardon, sire, and yours as well, my lord," he began with a nod to Boromir. "I do not know why I never considered asking for the king's help. All know that you are a healer, sire, and you should have been consulted. But there are also other things you should know."

Aragorn worked on the wound, packing it tightly with the leaves once he had managed to drain more of the poison away. "What have you given her?" he asked quietly as he placed a few more leaves in some water and set it near the fire. The crisp, clean smell began to clear the air in the room and Tanathel stirred restlessly.

Boromir stood at the door, uncertainty written on his face. He wanted to come in, but he knew he was no healer. He didn't want to be in the way, either. So he waited, his eyes on the scene within, worrying for his friend.

"Willow bark for fever, thyme to help relax her… and a poultice of meadowsweet to ease the swelling." Calas went swiftly to the jars Boromir had provided while Aragorn continued to bathe Tanathel's face with some of the _athelas _water. "My lord, these are what she has been using, apparently on orders from someone in the Houses of Healing. But my lord, none with any formal training would offer these for a wound like this! These are merely formulas for the skin, they provide no medicinal value whatsoever. Never would they have prevented this infection. In fact, they may have actually contributed to it." He shook his head angrily. "The wound was not even tended properly; it should have been cauterized when she was brought in. This could have been avoided."

"Once the infection is drawn, we will cauterize," Aragorn replied evenly. "She is resting easier; the fever has broken." He rose and clasped Calas on the shoulder. "Watch over her for a time, until we can safely seal the wound. I will return shortly. Boromir, walk with me."

Boromir fought down an instant's trepidation and nodded, stepping into the hallway with his king, and wondering if all that anger were directed at him. It could very well be; drawing his sword on the First Healer was quite unacceptable.

They strode in step out to the courtyard, where Aragorn indicated Boromir should sit beside him on the bench. "I would like an explanation for your behavior, Boromir." The anger had been controlled; but it simmered just beneath the surface.

Boromir took the indicated seat, somewhat reassured. If his king had intended to dress him down, he would be at parade rest before the man. "Tanathel is a strong woman, a warrior born," he began slowly. "She could not have borne the loss of the limb. She was already in despair over the injury. To take the leg could very well have killed her. Calas would not hear my pleas, would not reconsider." He shrugged, the gesture eloquent in its simplicity. "I saw no other option. Forgive me."

Aragorn let just the barest hint of a smile show through. "I could very well have you disciplined most sternly, my friend. I trust you have considered this?"

Boromir stiffened. "If that is what it takes to put me back in my King's good graces, then so be it. I await your decision, sir."

Aragorn laughed softly. "Rest easy, Boromir. I have no intention of disciplining you. In truth, it was necessary." He frowned, his anger making a reappearance as he replayed the Council meeting. "And we may yet have need of every able warrior we possess. There are rumors of the Haradim assembling battalions along the border." He paused for a moment. "Your behavior was the least of my worries at the time. My anger was not directed toward you."

Boromir felt an overwhelming sense of relief, but his training allowed him to cover it quickly. "My apologies, also, for missing Council, Aragorn. From what I hear, it was quite a spectacle." He would not reveal his page as his source; but if Corvin had told him true, he wished he _had_ been there. Aragorn in a fury was a sight to strike fear into even the stoutest heart.

"Be thankful you weren't. I was --- less than pleased with Cirin." He gave a snort of derision. "The man wishes me to provide a _true_ Heir, not merely name your brother and be done with it. I will have no other in Arwen's place; he will have to adjust to that fact." Again his anger stirred, coiling like a snake readying itself to strike.

"Consider the source, my friend. Cirin is a complete fool. He has never wed, so he has no knowledge of the grief you feel. Nor do I, truthfully." Boromir wondered for a moment at his unaccustomed tact. "It is of no matter, my friend. Cirin is one man. And he does not sway the entire Council."

Aragorn nodded, his eyes hooded, his anger kept firmly in check. "Let us return to the lieutenant. It will take both of us to hold her down while the wound is sealed."


	5. Chapter Five

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Five**

Tanathel still tossed restlessly as Boromir and Aragorn re-entered the room, and Calas was just finishing his preparations. The iron was in the fire, beginning to glow from the heat. "If this is to be done, it's best done quickly," he explained. "Lord Boromir, if you would restrain her shoulders and arms, Your Highness, I will need you to steady her legs. This will not be pleasant for any of us; but if she moves, I could do more harm than good." He gave a nod to show he was ready and lifted the iron from the fire and moved to stand next to the bed.

Boromir nodded and captured her hands in one of his, then leaned across her shoulders, putting his weight across her to hold her in place and pinning her hands between them. Aragorn did likewise, lying across her lower legs, keeping them locked in place.

The iron touched her flesh and Tanathel gave a ragged scream, trying to lurch away from the searing pain, only to find herself unable to move for the grip the men had on her. A smell of charred flesh rose and Boromir swallowed against a rush of nausea. Tanathel continued to cry out, and Boromir had to force himself not to give in and allow her to move, though the anguish in her voice tore at him. "Tanathel, hush, it's almost over, try to lie still, it won't be much longer, I promise," he found himself almost crooning. He managed to free one hand to place on her brow while keeping most of his weight still pinning her. He stroked at her hair, much as he had with Faramir when his brother was a youngster. "Not long, not long, see, it's done, it's all done, you can rest now, settle down, now, and rest."

Aragorn stifled his response to a tender Boromir, preferring to remain in one piece. So, that was the way the wind blew, was it? He would have to discreetly help this along. Never had he heard such a gentle tone from the man, not even in the presence of frightened Hobbits. He permitted himself a mental smile; most likely, Boromir had no idea how deeply this woman had already touched him.

Calas straightened as Tanathel subsided with an occasional whimper. "The wound is neatly cauterized, my lords. There are some things now that we should address, before she wakes." He handed the small pots of salve to Aragorn with a frown. "No healer of mine would have given her these, nor neglected to tend the wound properly. Those salves you hold are merely for treating dry skin and have no medicinal value whatsoever." He gave Aragorn a direct gaze, his gray eyes troubled. "Who would do such a thing?"

"Someone who knew no better, or someone with an interest in harming her," Aragorn spoke up determinedly. "Whatever the reason, he cannot be allowed to continue. The next time, he might kill someone."

Tanathel slowly forced herself to wakefulness, a dull, throbbing ache in her leg replacing the agony of before. She cast a quick glance at the limb, making certain it was still with her, and forced a weak whisper from her throat. "Sir?"

Boromir smiled and patted her hand reassuringly. "Welcome back, Lieutenant," he said softly. "Be still. Calas can tell you about your injury."

Tanathel nodded carefully, barely able to complete the motion for the leadenness of her body. What had they given her? She felt as limp as a wet rag, and not nearly as strong.

Calas came forward then, his smile broad. "It is good to see you awake, young lady, and not with the glow of fever about you," he began in a kindly voice. "I myself will be assuming responsibility for you, Lieutenant, at Lord Boromir's insistence. I am his favorite physician, you see." Laugh lines crinkled around his eyes as he checked the wound again. "You should be back to full strength before long, with little trace of a limp. But you must follow my directions exactly, lest the muscles betray you at the wrong moment. Exercise, and a lot of it. Not that you'll be lacking in that aspect. Use the limb as much as possible. And this salve will do what the others should have. It will keep the skin supple and prevent the scarring from immobilizing the limb; it also contains wintergreen to dull pain and arnica for the swelling, so use it sparingly. Four times a day, no more than that."

She nodded her agreement, wondering why Boromir was still there. Surely he had duties to attend; after all, he was the Captain-General of Gondor's army.

Boromir settled back by her side, his expression stern. "There are other things we need to speak of, Tanathel," he stated firmly. "Healer Calas tells me your wound was not treated properly at the outset, and that the salves you were using contained the wrong herbs to be of any use, indeed, that they might have worsened the infection." He took her hand in his again, a seemingly unconscious gesture. "We need to know who gave you the herbs, who tended your wound the first time. Can you tell us anything about him?"

That explained Boromir's presence. She was answerable directly to him; he had a vested interest in finding the truth of the matter. She moved her head slightly and saw Aragorn nearby, listening intently. Then her attention moved back to Boromir, and the gentle way he held her hand. "I only saw him for a moment," she murmured. "He cleaned the wound and bandaged it, and then gave me the salves. He said there was nothing more to be done." She closed her eyes against remembered despair. "He said that if I used the salves, I might retain some use of the leg, but not enough to fight."

Remembered despair welled up inside her and she squashed it ruthlessly. Boromir trusted this man, and he had said she would recover. Relief made her almost giddy. "He was a tall man, almost as tall as you, sire," she said absently as she strove to remember details that had been made hazy from pain. "His hair was dark, almost as dark as mine. Other than that, I could not say." She shrugged absently. "I was somewhat preoccupied at the time."

Boromir reached out absently and tucked back a wayward strand of her hair. "We will find him, Tanathel. Rest easy."

Aragorn nodded in agreement. "We must find this man. In the meantime, Tanathel, I require a promise from you. There will be no more of this foolishness when it comes to injury or illness. If the Healers wish you to attend them, you will. Is this clear?" His tone was light, but still conveyed his displeasure. She could have died from her stubborn refusal to see them sooner, and he needed all his warriors in one piece.

Tanathel took one look at the determined King and slowly nodded. "Yes, sir," she replied in a subdued voice.

Boromir turned her face to him. "I will add my orders to that one," he said simply. "You will come to Calas when you are need of healing. I trust him implicitly. He will tell you true and do all he can to keep you in one piece."

"Yes, sir." Tanathel was suitably contrite.

"Good. Now, my lords, I would have you depart. The lieutenant needs to rest. You may attend her later." Calas shooed them out and smiled for Tanathel. "I will be close by, my lady, if you have need of me. Rest, now, and regain your strength."


	6. Chapter Six

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Six**

Tanathel had spent three days in the Infirmary, which had given her far too much time to think. Unerringly, her thoughts had returned to the past, to her father.

_"I teach you these skills to protect you, should we ever be forced to return to Harad. You have never seen the desert, child; it is a harsh, unforgiving place, which makes its people harsh and unforgiving also. Only after great hardship and pain was I was able to make my way to Gondor, and freedom."_

Her father had taught her the ways of the Haradrim, but forbidden her to use them in any save the direst need. She had never understood why.

He had drilled her and drilled her and worked her still more, until her entire body had learned the ways of warfare. She was a living weapon; capable of killing with her bare hands if need be. Oh, most could, in a crude, unrefined breaking of the neck. But she was capable of great stealth, great strength, and knew all the places in a man's body that would drop him like a stone.

For instance, a blow just behind the ear would render a man senseless, long enough for a deliberate cutting of his throat. A perfectly aimed strike to the bridge of the nose would kill a man instantly by driving the bones into his brain. A thin wire looped about the throat would do a fine job of decapitation.

So many ways to kill a man.

Her thoughts shied away from the subject again. She would never use those skills, not while she had free will. She was no assassin, to take joy in the silent and stealthy death of others. She was a soldier true, and would do her killing openly on the battlefield.

Another memory tugged at her and she smiled slightly. She moved to the window seat, for Calas would not yet allow her much use of the leg, though the pain had long since ceased to be insistent.

The view was magnificent, though it failed to hold her attention. She walked once more in her memory, her father's voice sharp.

_"You continue to practice while I find out what brings our lord to visit, Tanathel." The sound of harness had interrupted a session with her sword, and as her father strode away, she continued the dance of death that she had been trying to master._

_Long moments passed; she paid them no heed until she heard Faramir at the entrance. "Your father tells me you would make a good soldier," he began conversationally. "Let me see your blade."_

_She passed it over, still wondering what had brought him here. She watched as he tested it, giving it a close look and a few practice swings. "A good sword. Show me that you know how to use it." She took it back and ran a few passes with it, then settled into one of the practice sets her father had drilled into her._

_It was almost a dance; she could count the moves as easily as the steps of the dances her mother had taught her. "Grace and speed are as important as strength," her father had insisted constantly, and with this dance, she finally understood what he had meant. Move after move came easily to her now, and when her father surprised her by bringing down his own blade toward her from behind, she was able to counter it easily. She came to a halt, barely winded, and watched them both warily._

_"Well done, Tanathel," Faramir said quietly as he held out a hand to her father. "You told me true, Aeglan. Is she as good an archer as she is with a sword?"_

_"She is, my lord."_

_"Then I will finish her training and she will be one of my Rangers. I have need of people I can trust at my back. Tanathel, report to me on the morrow in the City." Faramir gave them a proper bow and withdrew, leaving them alone. Tanathel turned to her father._

_"I don't understand," she said quietly. "If you could, you would serve, but it was forbidden by Steward Denethor. How then am I able to serve? They say women do not fight here."_

_"When I came here from Harad, Lord Denethor asked an oath of me, that I would bear no arms, save in defense of my home, and that my firstborn would serve in Gondor's Army when the time came. You are my only child, Tanathel, and to that end I have trained you as I would have my son. My oath will be fulfilled."_

_"But if women do not serve ---"_

_"Have you turned a deaf ear to all news, girl? Not for nothing is the Lady Eowyn called 'Wraithbane.' 'Twas she who slew the Witch-king. You will have a place with Lord Faramir's men. And you will not disgrace me; I have faith that you will do what must be done."_

She had learned of her father's death just two short months after she had gone to Henneth Annun; a messenger had brought her word, along with a final letter from him. He had indeed been proud of her.

She pulled her thoughts back to the present with a start when she heard Calas enter. "May I leave this place yet?" she asked plaintively. "I grow bored with waiting, and would be about my duties."

Calas examined the wound once more and smiled. "Healing nicely, as it should have done before. You are free to go, but you must return if there is any swelling or discharge. Otherwise, continue as I have instructed you and I will be most pleased with your recovery."

Tanathel grinned at him and snatched up the jar of salve, and then fled from the Infirmary.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously. **

**Author's Second note: I first encountered the Silver Trumpet Tavern in one of Evendim's works. It is borrowed without permission only because I couldn't get my email to send to her. E, if you want, I will change it... just let me know. Thanks.  
**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Seven**

**(The Silver Trumpet Tavern)**

Boromir sat and nursed his ale, brooding.

He had begun to entertain doubts of his father's sanity long before he had departed for Rivendell. But to have those doubts now confirmed… he was sorely disturbed by what he had been hearing.

He should have refused his father's order to go to Rivendell, should have forced the issue then. But he had gone, just the same, feeling only a vague sense of unease. And during his absence, his father's sanity had eroded by the hour, or so it seemed. And when news of Boromir's death had reached him, he had become bitter, falling into despair and allowing it to overcome him completely when Gondor needed him most.

The tales that were being spoken to him chilled his very blood. Faramir, who had ever only tried to please their father, being ridiculed and sent to his death simply because he was not Boromir? Denethor repenting only when Faramir was too close to death to realize it, then once more descending into madness and attempting to burn the both of them alive? These were events he could not understand.

The words he had heard, they stole the very warmth of his blood. The exchange between Denethor and Faramir, he could hardly credit it had been his father who had been so deliberately, desperately cruel.

_"You wish then that our places had been exchanged, that I had died and Boromir had lived." Faramir, once again striving to understand his father's mind, and despairing of ever receiving, if not approval, at least some sign that he was acceptable._

_Denethor, his eyes refusing to meet Faramir's, calculated cruelty in his words. "Yes. I wish that."_

_Faramir again, despairing of ever being addressed with kindness from his father, struggling with the tears he would not shed in the man's presence. "Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead." A quite proper bow later, he moved for the door, and then turned back to his father once more. "If I should return, think better of me, Father." His words had been soft, though clear._

_And Denethor, ever cruel to his youngest, had spoken once more, to Faramir's retreating back. The derision in his words cut like knives into the gentle Hurin. "That will depend upon the manner of your return."_

Boromir took another long pull at his tankard, only to find it empty. He roared for a refill, caring not that he might indeed be drinking himself into a stupor. He had failed, not only his brother, but Gondor herself. And _that_ failure was simply not to be borne.

A shadow fell across his table and he swore silently even as he grasped the fresh tankard. "I've no use for companionship tonight, wench. Leave me in peace."

"Is that any way to speak to your lieutenant, sir?" Tanathel's voice was a shock to him and he met her gaze evenly. "If you must drink, Boromir, at least let it be for a joyful reason. Let us drink to my release from that dank prison you call an Infirmary, instead."

Boromir nodded acquiescence and indicated the seat across from him. Her presence was, actually, a pleasant respite from the thoughts that haunted him. Anyone's presence would be. "Then let us drink! Come, you are several behind, you need to catch up!" He quickly sloughed off his melancholy. "Drink up!"

Tanathel laughed softly. "I should warn you, I can probably hold my liquor as well as you. I've had practice." Her voice held a teasing note.

"We'll see about that. Barkeep! We'll need a cask or two, and an impartial witness." Boromir handed her his barely touched ale. "This, and the one you have, and we'll start on even ground. Agreed?" He knew it was the ale doing most of the talking; but why shouldn't it? If this _woman_, no matter how capable a warrior she was, wanted to be equal with the men, he would treat her as an equal. Up to and including getting her totally, stinking, slobbering drunk.

Tanathel nodded her agreement and tossed back the ale, then proceeded to do the same with the second pint. "Agreed. Ready?"

Boromir gave a glance up as the casks arrived and grinned. "I thought I said an _impartial_ witness," he laughed as he recognized his brother. "You'll judge for her because she's one of yours!"

"I would never be anything other than impartial, especially with you," Faramir chuckled back. "I'd heard you were down here drowning your sorrows and thought I'd check on you. And what do I find? My finest Ranger in company with you, about to drink you under the table."

"She's no longer your Ranger, little brother, and I doubt she can drink me blind, either." Boromir was in fine good humor. "Shall we begin, Tanathel? The night is young!"

Faramir shook his head and deftly drew two tankards, handing them off. "You both know the rules. No spits, no spills, first one unable to drink loses. Drink up!"

A short period of time later, both the participants were significantly jollier and Faramir was holding his sides to keep from falling over from mirth. The two had matched each other, drink for drink, pint for pint, without an end in sight, and Faramir would not have wished their impending hangovers on anyone.

"Enough!" Boromir finally roared happily. He nearly collapsed on the table, laughing like a loon, and Tanathel reached over unsteadily to try and support his head, only to miss and poke him rather painfully in the nose. He reared back and the legs of his chair went out from under him, but not before grabbing her hand.

The resulting wreck drew a round of laughter and applause from the spectators as Tanathel was dragged across the table to land on top of Boromir. Both of them were laughing hysterically as they righted themselves, swaying drunkenly against each other companionably. "So I win?" Tanathel laughed as she mock-punched Boromir in the ribs. Boromir responded by putting her in a chokehold and rubbing his knuckles across her hair.

"Not a chance," he replied, making a special attempt to sound much less inebriated than he was. The effect was spoiled by the rather goofy grin he couldn't wipe from his face. "But Tan… Tan… can't get my tongue around y'name…"

"Tan… can't say it either," Tanathel giggled.

Boromir ran an arm around Tanathel's waist, but which of them he was trying to support was anyone's guess. Faramir shooed them both out, drawing his purse to settle the account with the barkeep.

The two made their unsteady way toward the Academy, laughing and staggering occasionally into a wall, only to rebound out with more mirth. Finally they arrived at their destination just outside the Officers' Residence. Boromir abruptly halted, causing Tanathel to slip slightly and fall against him.

Brown eyes met green, and both widened slightly in shock at the contact. Strangely enough, neither of them felt very drunk any longer.

"I think, Tanathel," Boromir began very softly, "that we had best part ways here."

Tanathel nodded and stepped back, her eyes never leaving his. Then, in a lightning move, she placed a light kiss against his cheek and disappeared into her room, closing the door firmly between them. Boromir stood for a few moments, watching the door, and then made his way to his own rooms.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Eight**

**(The Council Chambers)**

Boromir bowed to his King as he entered and then took his seat, silently cursing his foolishness of the night before. His head felt like a drum; even the tiniest sound reverberated through his skull, which was surely too small for the amount of noise it was trying to contain. He stifled the groan that threatened and forced himself to appear focused and capable.

Aragorn called the meeting to order. "My Steward has been investigating rumors of Haradrim activity in the south. Faramir?"

Faramir stood then, and with a slight bow to the assembled, he indicated places on the open map before him. "They are massing battalions along the border, here, here, and here. We have an outpost here; I would suggest, until we are certain of their intentions, that we reinforce it heavily. If the Haradrim attack, this garrison would hold, but only with additional troops in place."

Cirin stood and Aragorn forced himself to be civil. "You have a suggestion, Cirin?"

"Indeed. I would also suggest that those in the City with Haradrim connections should be watched, and closely. They might be passing information to their countrymen." Cirin gave Boromir a quick glance. "We must be certain that no news of our troop movements leaves the City."

Boromir remained seated, though his temper was rising quickly. Eru, but his head hurt! And this weasely little worm was not helping matters. "You are suggesting that we place some of the population into custody?" he asked nonchalantly. He waited until the man nodded. "I see no reason to do so. These are _our_ people! We should lock them away for the mere accident of their birth? They have Haradrim blood; does that make them monsters? No, they are no different than they ever were."

"You are so besotted with that unnatural female that you cannot be trusted, either!" Cirin shouted in response.

Boromir shot to his feet, his hangover forgotten in the initial rush of fury. "You attack _my_ honor, you gutter slime? And where were _you_ while Saruman was destroying Gondor? Fighting back against his tyranny? Trying to restore your king to his throne? No, you were cowering in your home, while _I_ fought for your freedom and your king. While _Tanathel_ fought for your king!"

Faramir was also on his feet, his rage plain. "Retract that accusation or I will tear your lying tongue from your mouth," he spat. "Boromir is no traitor, and if you name him so, there is no place in Middle Earth that will hide you from me."

Cirin glared at Faramir. "Of course you would take his side," he sneered, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. "After all, you are the closest of brothers. One wonders just how _close_ the two of you really are! Perhaps you take turns with her, hm? Or do you take turns with each other and leave her to watch?"

Boromir leaped across the table at him as Faramir gave a strangled cry and drew his dagger. Aragorn rose with a ringing shout. _"Enough!"_ The fight broke up instantly, all three men turning their attention to their king with near identical expressions of shock. "That is quite enough! Cirin, you will remove yourself from this chamber and from Gondor itself. It is not enough that you accuse my most trusted men of treason and more… you have accused _me_ of favoritism and acts against the good of Gondor as well. You are to be out of the City gates before nightfall."

He turned to the brothers, fire in his eye. "I understand you were insulted, gentlemen, but there will be no further displays of this nature. There will be no brawling in Council. You will see me after Council for your punishment."

Both men bowed their apologies to their king and re-took their seats, seething. Not at Aragorn; both would serve him faithfully to their dying breaths. No, the anger was for Cirin. They both resolutely tabled the reaction, bringing their attention back to the business before them.

Aragorn gave one final glare around the table, settling everyone back down to business. "Boromir, you will take enough men to reinforce the Garrison. Leave as soon as possible. Gondor is in a weakened condition; we cannot afford to allow the Haradrim to take advantage of this. Daerlin?" Warily Aragorn allowed him to speak, hoping desperately that there would be no repeat. Daerlin was not over fond of Tanathel either; but hopefully he would be more discreet about his distrust.

Daerlin cleared his throat, obviously searching for just the right words to keep from inflaming Boromir any further. "I would suggest that Tanathel be sent with them," he began carefully. "She _is_ Haradrim, though I do not count that as a flaw, like some. She might be able to shed some light on their plans. She speaks the language; perhaps she might also be used as in interpreter."

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully. "A wise idea. Boromir, your thoughts?"

Boromir also nodded. "I had already considered including her. As you say, she speaks the language. She is also a formidable warrior, and could be an asset if things worsen suddenly."

"Then this Council is adjourned, unless anyone else has something pressing?" Aragorn waited only a moment. "Good day, gentlemen. Faramir, Boromir, attend me."

The Council filed out and the brothers remained, keeping their expressions blank. The silence stretched out until both were uncomfortably shifting in their seats, looking for all the world like a pair of guilty little boys about to be strapped. Finally Aragorn spoke. "Your father would be appalled by your behavior," he said simply.

Boromir looked up, his green eyes veiled. "Indeed he would, but the only regret that I have is causing you embarrassment. I will offer no other apology for my actions. Cirin should have been drowned at birth."

Faramir slowly shook his head. "I, too, am appalled at my actions; I had thought my control over my temper much more reliable. It will not happen again, my lord."

"Cirin is no longer your concern, either of you. What am I to do with you? There can _never _be another such display of temper in Council. Faramir, I have your word; go, and keep yourself to your chambers for the next two days unless I summon you. Boromir…" Aragorn caught Boromir's eyes as Faramir bowed and withdrew, and the weight of that steely gray stare was almost too much for Boromir.

"Never in all of Middle Earth would I have caused you pain or embarrassment," Boromir said simply. He knelt before his king, his head bowed in respect. "I said I would not apologize for my actions; but I find I must. Forgive me."

Aragorn sighed heavily and raised the other man to his feet, drawing him into an embrace. "All is forgiven, _mellon-nin,_ but there must be some discipline. I will think on it and give you your sentence when you return. Go now, and ready your troops. You must depart quickly; this situation must be contained. I do not trust to luck; Cirin might well go to the Haradrim since I have banished him. You must reach the Garrison before he can do so."

Boromir nodded and departed quickly.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Nine**

Tanathel winced as her cadets poured onto the range. Her head hurt like blazes; she would have given her good right arm to have forgone her carousing the night before. "Cadets!" she roared. "There will be discipline on this range, just like anywhere else in this Academy. Now form up! I want a look at you."

They snapped into ranks immediately, silent and respectful, at attention. She nodded slightly. "Very good. You gentlemen will be the finest archers in all of Gondor by the time I'm finished with you."

She stepped back, watching them carefully. "The first thing you must learn is that the length of the bow will determine your range. It will also determine how much strength you must have to pull it." She held out her own longbow, almost as tall as she. "When you leave this academy, you will be able to draw this bow with ease, and to shoot they eye from a tiny bird in flight. That is my vow to you. I will teach you all I know of archery, that you will be better able to defend Gondor."

Someone cleared their throat near the entrance and she turned. "You are interrupting a lesson, Corvin," she said sternly.

"My apologies, Lieutenant, but the Captain-General sends for you to come immediately. Your cadets are to report to the Armsmaster until such time as the Steward can take over the class." Corvin stood his ground, though he'd never heard her sound so harsh to him.

Tanathel nodded and dismissed her cadets, quickly grabbing up her bow and indicating that Corvin should take her to Boromir, which he did.

"You sent for me, sir?" she asked quickly. This would be official until she was told otherwise, though she hoped his head hurt as badly as hers.

"I did. I need to know which, if any, of your cadets are ready for duty. We have need of archers to reinforce the garrison on the southern border." Boromir was also keeping it official, though it was difficult through the headache. "You are also to go. I need my best there."

She preened mentally for only a second at being referred to as his best. "None of the cadets I've seen are capable of that level of duty yet, sir," she answered truthfully, if a bit apologetically. "Of course, I haven't seen very many of them, yet. My advice would be to bring up Rangers from wherever we can spare them. That way you have not only archers but able swordsmen as well."

"Good." Boromir looked up from his desk then and grinned. "Nice to know you've a sound head on your shoulders. Oh, for Eru's sake, sit down. It hurts my head to look up at you."

She grinned back at him and took the offered chair, grateful that she could stop looking down at the desk. "At least I know I'm not suffering alone," she quipped.

"No, you most assuredly aren't," he answered. He pushed a goblet across the desk and took up its twin. "Courtesy of Calas. It's very effective, though it tastes positively vile. Drink up. We'll both need to be clear headed for this."

She did as ordered, trying not to fetch it back up the moment she was finished. "Vile is too kind a word," she finally gasped.

Boromir rose. "Gather your kit, Tanathel. We leave for the southern border at dusk."

She rose in turn and nodded acceptance of the order, and then went to carry it out.

The troops were assembled by the third hour after noon and Boromir gave silent thanks that his people were so well trained. He turned to find Tanathel only a step behind him, again with a small arsenal at her command. Matched blades hung at her back, as did her longbow and quiver. Twin daggers hung at her belt and her punching blades were in place on her forearms.

"I feel safer already," Boromir drawled, his voice thick with humor.

She glared at him before grinning back. "Someday I'll teach you to use these," she said as she made a fist. "Until then, just get used to the idea that I'm watching your back."

Boromir nodded shortly and turned away, going to his horse and giving the command to mount. He waited only until he saw Aragorn on the balcony of his apartments and saluted.

Aragorn returned the salute with Anduril and his words came clearly to them. "Safe journey to you all, soldiers of Gondor!"

Boromir didn't turn; he merely signaled for the column to move out. The Gates of the City opened wide, and the column passed through, out into the late afternoon splendor of the Pelennor Fields.

He drove them hard, pushing them beyond what seemed the limits of mere men, yet when it came time to halt for the night, he was not pleased with their progress. "Tanathel, we've got to move them more swiftly. Faramir's report was positively bloodcurdling; we need all haste. Even now, word might be making its way to Harad of our plans." Of necessity, his voice was soft; it wouldn't do to alarm the men any more than necessary.

"Then we don't make camp. Rest the horses, then get underway again." She kept her voice soft as well. "You suspect a traitor?"

"Not among these men, no." Grimly he outlined the events of the Council. "One man, riding hard, could conceivably outrun us and make the border in three days. We have to be ready by then."

Tanathel cursed softly, the sound of the Haradrim language harsh from her lips. "There's no hope for it, then. We'll have to move them out, Boromir. I'd also suggest a message rider sent ahead; as you say, a single rider, traveling light, riding hard, could make it. They can hold if they know help is coming." She rose from where they had crouched to plan. "I'll get my horse ready."

Boromir shook his head. "No, I won't send you. Find Lethwin, he's light. Send him ahead. I'll get the rest of this lot moving." He moved to the campsites while she went in search of Lethwin. "Strike camp! We're moving out. We will rest as need be, but we must make haste." A cold finger of dread had touched him, and he couldn't get them moving fast enough.

A horse passed him by, not too close, but he still recognized the rider. Lethwin was about his mission, and Tanathel had come up beside him again. It wasn't hard to read the expression in her eyes. "Tanathel, you have good sense, when you choose to use it. Would you believe a Haradrim riding up to the gates of the garrison was one of your own? Or a woman? Especially under the circumstances."

She sighed heavily. "No, of course you're right." Her eye caught on some of the wagons.

Boromir followed her gaze and cursed. "Daethlin, you and your men travel with the supplies, protect them. The rest of you, mount up! We're moving out!"


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Ten**

Two days of hard riding later found them near to the garrison, but not near enough. Boromir drew up sharply, signaling a halt. "Mauhar, check that out," he said as he soothed his mount. Ohtar danced beneath him, the warhorse clearly sensing something amiss. Beside him, Tanathel whispered to her own mount, patting it gently on the neck and trying to calm him.

Mauhar charged back, his face set in angry lines. "It's Lethwin, my lord. He was riding toward us when he was struck down; I doubt he reached the garrison."

Boromir's gaze was caught by a wisp of low-lying cloud, and his brow furrowed. Then his nose caught up with his eyes and he understood why Ohtar was nervous. Smoke!

Another rider approached, making no effort to conceal his passage. He crested the hill and drew in sharply, giving his horse a much needed respite from the harsh pace. "My lord!" he cried as he reeled in his saddle.

Boromir spurred forward, grasping the man as he began to fall. "Galen! See to him." He dismounted once the man was in the hands of his healer, and remained close. Tanathel went to the top of the rise and schooled her expression quickly, though Boromir had seen the dismay cross her face. "What is it, Lieutenant?" he demanded as he turned back to the wounded man.

Tanathel didn't turn. Her voice was strong, though her news was terrible. "The garrison is burning. There are Haradrim everywhere, and Mumaks crossing the border. They'll overrun this position in a matter of hours."

Boromir didn't hesitate. "Mauhar, you and Galen take this man back to the City. Turn the column when you reach it. We'll leave no supplies for the Haradrim to use. The rest of us will delay them all we can, but the King _must _be warned. Go."

Mauhar grasped Boromir's forearm and Tanathel swung down from her mount, leading him forward. "Take my horse," she said simply. "Wind Dancer is swift, and he will go until he drops to see you safe. He will carry both of you safely back to Minas Tirith."

Mauhar nodded his head in thanks and mounted, taking the wounded man up before him in the saddle. He and Galen then spurred away, leaving the rest watching.

"Form up!" Boromir shouted even as he remounted. He held a hand down for Tanathel to grasp. "His horse is done in, and Mauhar's is not much better or you wouldn't have sent Dancer," he said grimly. "I need you in this fight."

She took his hand without question, climbing aboard behind him, and Boromir whirled his mount to face his men, his sword drawn. "You are soldiers of Gondor, the finest warriors imaginable! There is no enemy too strong, no challenge too great, no battle too big! You are strong, as strong as the very foundations of Gondor herself! We will fight this enemy, and we will emerge victorious!" He turned Ohtar to face the enemy, moving forward at a trot to the top of the rise, to show the Haradrim they were unafraid. He halted his men and they took in the scene.

Two mighty Mumaks stood to the east of the garrison's wall, determinedly pulling it down, stone by stone. The Haradrim were in ranks, close by the building itself, as though in review. Boromir raised his sword in salute. "Form up the line!" A few moments later, when he knew his men were in line behind him, he raised the blade again. "For Gondor!"

Together, they sprang forward, hooves thundering across the ground, the cries of the soldiers deafening even in the openness of the plains. "Gondor! For Gondor!"

The Haradrim were quick to react, though not as quickly as necessary. Boromir's men were on them before they could arm.

Tanathel launched herself from Ohtar's back with a bloodcurdling scream. She rolled, coming up with both blades in play, dancing, whirling, dealing death in the ways of her father's people. Her blades flashed in the sun and Boromir forced his attention back to the enemy.

The battle was fierce, and many men lay dying as it moved ever closer to the outpost. Boromir took a quick head count as the Mumaks finally came about, ready to trample anyone in their path. The count was not reassuring; more of his men lay upon the field, either dead or badly wounded, than the enemy. And where was Tanathel? He wheeled Ohtar again, rage welling up inside him, and raised his sword once more in defiance. "For Gondor!" He spurred forward, darting under one of the enormous creatures to slash at its legs, hoping to hamstring the beast and bring it down.

The Mumak gave a great trumpet and limped around, intending to stamp out this annoying insect that harried it, but Boromir was faster. He kept himself underneath it, striking at the legs whenever he could. Eventually the monster had to go down. Surely it couldn't take much more!

A spear seemed to sprout from the creature's leg and Boromir whipped around, searching for the source. Tanathel stood upon the wall of the fortress, more spears near her. "Get out of there!" she cried as she hefted another. She drew back as Boromir reined aside, darting out from under the beast and racing for the relative safety of the fortress.

The spear ran home into the Mumak's eye and it gave a roar of pain before crashing to the ground. The other one had been brought down by the remaining cavalry and the Haradrim quickly disarmed or killed. Boromir pulled up next to them, breathing heavily from the exertion. "Take them into the stockade," he ordered. "Mithlan, get some men to work on that wall. I want it shored up before nightfall." He gave a critical glance around to the battlefield, his heart heavy at the toll of the dead. "Nallis, take the rest of the men, get the wounded inside where they can be treated." Finally he allowed himself to relax and the number of small hurts he had taken began to make themselves felt. Nevertheless, he would see his men treated first, as always.

Tanathel greeted him just inside the wall, taking Ohtar's reins and leading the big roan to a waiting trough. "It isn't poisoned," she stated simply. "I checked." She gave him a critical glance as she allowed the stallion to drink his fill. "You need a healer."

"After the men are seen to." Boromir watched as the others began to file in, as the repair work on the wall began. "You're not completely unscathed yourself. You're covered in blood. Is any of it yours?" He had one completely wretched moment at the thought, but pushed it aside quickly. "Or are you going to tell me this is nothing?" He laid one gloved finger against a cut on her cheek.

"It _is_ nothing," she said softly as she moved away, leading Ohtar toward the stable area. "We've few men left, and no horses save yours," she reported bluntly. "If they regroup, we won't hold until the infantry arrives."

"We've supplies enough to sit out a long siege, and you say the water is safe. We should be safe enough here for a couple of days until the infantry arrives. We simply sit tight and use what archers we have on the walls. We also have catapults. I don't understand why it wasn't held in the first place."

"We don't know what happened before we got here," she replied tartly as she dipped a square of cloth in a bucket of clean water. "Now come here so I can wash some of the blood off you and see what's yours."

"Leave off, will you? I can wash myself." There was a petulant note to his voice that he didn't like, so he smiled to take some of the sting from his words. "Use that on your cheek. Yes, much better. Deep, but it will give you a roguish look."

Tanathel snorted at him. "Looks like they've brought in the wounded. They're closing what's left of the gate." She gestured toward the opening. "We need to find something to brace that before nightfall, too, or this will be over before it begins." She straightened up. "I'll look in on the wounded. You get cleaned up a bit or they'll think you're the walking dead."

She clapped him on the shoulder and walked away, and he was left wondering why the feel of her touch lingered… and why he had enjoyed that brief contact so very much.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Eleven**

Boromir stood on the wall, watching the tree line to the south. Day had given way to night, and still he stood watch. The campfires he could see disturbed him. For all his reassuring words to Tanathel earlier, they were in an extremely vulnerable position.

Alone, a handful of men against an army. If the wall held, they could last indefinitely. Surely enough time for the infantry to catch up with them. But if Mauhar had followed his orders explicitly, there would be no rescue. The column would have been turned, infantry and wagon alike.

Mauhar would reach Minas Tirith in about five days, even on Wind Dancer. That made, what, about ten days before reinforcements could possibly arrive. Could they hold that long? They had enough supplies to last them a month, and fresh water for at least three weeks. There was rubble enough for the catapults, medicines for the wounded… surely they could hold out, if the wall held. Why hadn't the men they were coming to reinforce done so? The question gnawed at him, allowing him no peace.

Nallis stepped up beside him. "I relieve you, sir," he said softly. "You're needed in the Infirmary. I will keep watch here."

Boromir nodded and left the wall, going quickly to the Infirmary. Mithlan met him in the doorway. "I am no healer, sir, nor is anyone else here. Most of the wounds we could tend well enough, but Aron… we tended what we could, but I doubt he will last the night."

Boromir went straight to the lad's bedside, taking in the pallor of the face and the bloodied bandages that lay discarded nearby. Eru, did he have any blood left _inside?_ He sat down next to the boy's bed.

This was the hardest part of his duty. Too often had it been necessary for him to sit deathwatch over those who barely seemed old enough to hold a sword, much less use one in defense of their home. He took the lad's hand in his own, horrified at the coldness there.

"S-sir?" Aron's voice was soft, but still audible.

"Rest easy, Aron, we'll do what we can." Boromir was checking over the wounds carefully; Eru, what a mess! The wound in his belly was a certain death sentence, but all the others were undoubtedly where the pain was coming from. "Rest, now. Sleep."

Aron tightened his grip slightly and Boromir felt his eyes widen. The boy had some strength to him! "You should rest, too," he managed to whisper. "They'll need you tomorrow." He turned his face slightly toward Boromir and the man forced his face to remain calm. "I'm not afraid, sir."

That made things a little easier, but not much. Boromir sighed softly. "Who should I take word to, Aron?" he asked softly.

The boy's eyes began to droop slightly and Boromir knew there was little time left. "My father," Aron breathed. "Fornon, in Lossarnach."

"I will go there myself, Aron, as soon as we are finished here," Boromir promised him, keeping his voice steady and firm. "I promise, your father will know you died with honor, that you fought well. That you were brave and true to the end."

Aron managed a weak nod. "That's… all I ask." His breathing was beginning to labor and his skin had taken on a waxy pallor. Boromir simply held his hand, talking softly to him, giving him reassurance, until he simply drew one last breath and then no more.

Boromir gently closed Aron's eyes and laid a gentle hand against his cheek. "Be at peace," he murmured. Then he rose. "Take him and see him buried properly," he ordered. "Put his possessions into a safe place; I'll see they return to his father."

He would return to the wall; sleep was going to be hard to come by. He could use the time to try and work out a defense against the horde of Haradrim on the southern edge of the plain.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Finally another update! Hopefully I'll be able to move this along a bit more quickly now. Thanks to everyone who's been hanging in there waiting!**

**Chapter Twelve**

Aragorn paced the Courtyard slowly, chewing over the report he'd just been given. Mauhar and Galen had arrived with the dawn, with horrifying news. The garrison had already been lost; Boromir had taken what troops he could to attempt to retake it. One bright spot in the gloom; Mauhar had 'interpreted' Boromir's orders about turning the column. A thousand infantry soldiers were still on their way to the garrison to reinforce them.

Faramir had ordered up as many experienced men as remained in the city. They would be ready to march by nightfall; but would they be enough? Sauron's occupation (through Saruman) of Gondor had left many men in no condition to fight.

Had he regained his friend, his companion, only to lose him again so quickly? Had he sent Boromir to his death?

It didn't salve his conscience any that Boromir had gone willingly. Boromir, he knew, would ever offer his life for Gondor; the White City had been his one true love for all of his adult life. His loyalty to Aragorn was absolute.

Aragorn supposed that of the soldiers who could be in this precarious position, he had the two best in place. Boromir would take back the garrison and hold it if any hope prevailed; and Tanathel would watch his back to the exclusion of her own safety. Neither treachery nor overwhelming odds would keep those two down for long.

It was a subtle reassurance to have the brash young woman with Boromir. She was a master strategist in the making; if she could hold her temper long enough for her common sense to speak, she would make an excellent officer. But in the meantime, she would provide a sounding board for Boromir and hopefully not encourage too many headstrong offensives.

With that in mind, he turned his thoughts back to Minas Tirith herself. With Faramir out of the City, he would need to be doubly on his guard. If this were a feint to draw out all the protection from the City, then things could go wrong very quickly. What a pity that Cirin hadn't known the Dwarves still in the City were ready to fight if need be!

Yes, the City would withstand a siege. The Gates had been reworked with Dwarven cunning, and should withstand the most powerful of rams. With the food and supplies from the Shire, they were in excellent shape. Water, too, was no object; there shouldn't even have to be much rationing unless the siege went on for months.

The fact remained that if the Haradrim managed to overcome the garrison, there would be little to stop them before they reached the Pelennor. Faramir's Rangers in southern Ithilien would delay them, but sheer numbers would overwhelm them. Something had to be done!

He firmly pulled his mind back from useless conjecture and turned back inside, his steps heavy as he made his way to the Hall of Kings, where he would conduct his audiences for the rest of the day. Mostly trivial matters, he was certain, but at least they might keep his thoughts far from the devastation that could occur so swiftly. One tiny event, he well knew, could set in motion a chain of events that could quite simply destroy them all.

**(South Gondor)**

"Get crews to those catapults!" Boromir ordered from his place on the wall. "I want archers evenly spaced along this wall and above the gates. Anyone who can use a bow. Tanathel!"

She came toward him at his summons, her eyes instead on the masses of the enemy nearby. "What are they waiting for?" she demanded. "They should have pressed their attack when we entered the fortress. They're giving us time to prepare for an assault."

Boromir shrugged eloquently. "It isn't typical for them. All the battles I've fought with them in past, they were eager to get to the fight, to revel in the death and destruction of their enemy." He turned to survey the preparations and nodded in satisfaction. Everything appeared to be as ready as they could make it; if the Haradrim came at them now, they could hold. "This waiting is unnerving."

Tanathel gave him a nod of agreement. "It's getting to the men, too. Everyone is stretched taut as a bowstring, waiting for something to happen. It's wearing them down." It was wearing at her, too, but she wouldn't admit it to anyone. "We should take the fight to them," she urged. "We've the range; the catapults would make short work of the _mumakil._" The great beasts of the Haradrim would be easy prey for the catapults, for they were huge. Easy targets.

"We'd get one volley, no more, before they were on us," Boromir responded acidly. "They move too quickly to aim accurately. We might damage their camp, remove a few threats; but the rest would destroy us. We've not enough strength to go on the offensive." He saw her expression and explained carefully. "For all their size, _mumakil_ move quickly. A catapult isn't like an arrow; you can't adjust the direction you want to fire without a lot of effort. And they take more time to re-arm."

Tanathel looked down for a moment, judging her response. He was obviously feeling the strain as much as everyone else. He didn't usually snap at her over tactics, and she wasn't usually so dense. "I knew that," she said slowly. "I'm just tired of waiting."

"We all are." With those words, he expressed all the pent-up rage and frustration he held inside. "All of us, down to the last man. But there is nothing else for it. Unless we get some reinforcements, we have to be careful. And caution demands patience, on all our parts." He squared his shoulders as he again regarded the enemy campsite. "We have to outlast them."

**TBC**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**(South Gondor)**

Eat, sleep, watch. The cycle was beginning to get under Boromir's skin, and he knew his men were no better off. It gnawed at him, the uncertainty of Gondor's position. As long as they held the fortress, the Haradrim could not advance; but the fact that the enemy hadn't even _attempted_ a strike was more than unusual. It was absolutely unbelievable, which added another goad to his already raw nerves.

The infantry had arrived the night before, and proceeded to into the garrison without so much as a sneeze from the Haradrim. Boromir had been more than pleased to see them, no mistake about that, but _what_ was the enemy up to? The waiting was about to drive him mad!

Tanathel dropped heavily across from him at the table, her expression composed, but Boromir could see the strain around her eyes as well. "This isn't right," she said softly. "The men are getting more nervous by the hour. It's not normal." Concern lurked beneath the surface of her dark eyes; Boromir saw it as clearly as if she had stated it aloud.

"Lack of confidence isn't a typical Haradrim failing," he responded drily and was gratified to see a small smile from her. But the worry overshadowed the moment of humor and he went into command persona immediately. "They're waiting for something in particular," he said succinctly. "By all rights, the walls should have been breached and the fortress fallen long before now. Tenacity is too mild a word for them. They should have kept at us during that first assault, kept at it until every last one of us was dead. Why did they break off? Why did they let us into the garrison? _Why?"_

"Because they are being just as cautious as we are," she replied evenly. She took a deep breath. "Sometimes it's hard for me to remember my father's teachings. He was determined I would be raised as Haradrim, though I was to serve Gondor. He made absolutely certain I would understand their ways, their tactics, everything." She couldn't meet his eye, unsure of how he would react to her disclosure. "My father was a warrior of Harad, a Captain in their army before he fled to Gondor."

Boromir simply nodded. He had known much of her history from his discussions with Faramir; but to have her confirm his brother's words gave him an extra measure of confidence in her. "You said he taught you everything," he began slowly, his gaze direct, though mischief lurked in the green eyes. "Did he teach you the language as well, or just the curses?"

She grinned for a moment and Boromir's spirits lifted; it had been days since he had seen her truly smile. "I curse with far more assurance than I speak," she laughed softly. "But I do speak it."

He rose from the table. "Come with me. Perhaps a few days in our stockade will have convinced the captives that we mean them no harm."

* * *

"This is going to be difficult," Tanathel remarked acidly as she placed a restraining hand on Boromir's breastplate. She wouldn't translate what the soldier had said to her, but the tone had been enough to make her color deepen and rouse Boromir's ire. She spat a string of Haradrim back at the man and was gratified to see him stiffen.

"Find out what his name is, first," Boromir growled. He knew it put men more at ease when you addressed them by name, enemy or not.

She gave him another spate of rapid speech, then listened as he answered, some of the anger leaving her face. "His name is Nathethon," she reported, "and he refuses to say anything else. He says you might as well kill him now because he is already dead." Another exchange, this one considerably less heated. "He says he is proud to die protecting his home and his family from the butchers of Gondor." Her voice was tinged with disgust.

Boromir concealed his fury masterfully. Butchers? What right did this creature have to label _him_ as a butcher? It wasn't the men of Gondor who had _slaughtered _the innocent during the Ring War! "Tell him he isn't going to die, not today. Tell him we will send him home to his family."

Tanathel fought down the urge to growl at Nathethon as he answered almost before Boromir had finished speaking. "He says he understands you but he doesn't believe you. And he won't dishonor himself further by lowering himself to speak your language. Ask your questions, he will say nothing more to you since he is already as the dead." She forced herself to keep her voice even. "His own people will kill him on sight, now, because he will be seen as a betrayer," she continued. "The same fate awaits all who betray their birthright, their people, their honor. He has been in our company, he has been spoken to by our people, tended by our people, he will no longer be trusted among his own."

Boromir grasped at that one tiny flaw in Nathethon's argument. "If you are already dead," he began, addressing his remark directly to the prisoner, "then what have you to lose by answering?" He kept his voice reasonable and unconcerned. Honor would be the sticking point; if Nathethon had any, this trick wouldn't work. "At worst, it would give you a few more days of life." Honor in a Haradrim? The thought was a sobering one; he had thought of them as nothing more than an enemy to be destroyed for all of his life. And Tanathel, though she was Haradrim by heritage, certainly didn't fit in that mold; she had more honor in her littlest finger than most grown men he knew. He must keep that firmly in mind. They were not all of a piece.

Tanathel's voice was rough as she translated, sparing nothing so that Boromir would understand this was most likely a hopeless endeavor. "You are as the sand of the desert, ever shifting and changing, always seeking to cover everything in its path, never creating, only destroying. Your words are as harsh as the sun, burning everything it touches. You will not take our lands, nor our people. We will die to the last child before we will grovel at your feet. We are already slaves of the desert; we will not be slaves of men."

Boromir felt his eyes widen slightly in shock and motioned for Tanathel to accompany him out of the stockade. He waited only until they were safely out of earshot before turning on her, his mind already working feverishly. "Why would they think such a thing?" he demanded harshly. "Never has Gondor sought to enslave them. We have only fought to keep _them_ from enslaving _us!"_

Tanathel gave it a moment's thought, trying to see the situation from the Haradrim perspective. "They were slaves of Mordor for a very long time," she said slowly. "They could not choose their battles. They went where ordered, fought as ordered, even died as ordered. They had no free will."

Boromir quickly began to issue orders. "Mithlan, ready the archers to provide covering fire. Nallis, get everyone else to work fletching arrows, reinforcing what can be reinforced and set a guard on everything else. Tanathel, Borlan, come with me." He handed Tanathel the King's Banner and a standard bearing a white flag went to Borlan. "I don't think they wanted this fight any more than we do. We're going to talk to them."


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Fourteen **

**(Southern Gondor/Northern Harad)**

Boromir fought not to flinch as the Haradrim troops surrounded them. Tanathel held the King's banner high, her pale face the only indication of her unease. Borlan also seemed outwardly composed and Boromir spared a moment's grim pride in their dedication.

"Why have you come?" the Haradrim leader snarled as he entered the loose circle that had formed around the Gondorians. His voice was thickly accented, but his speech was clear. "We could kill you without hesitation."

Boromir gave the man a direct gaze, holding his eyes to underscore his sincerity. "We came to negotiate a proper truce," he said simply. "Surely no more blood should be spilled over this worthless patch of ground."

"It may be worthless to you, Bo-ro-mir," the man drawled, his tone insulting. "Oh, yes, we know who you are. You and that _mahlakh_ at your side. This ground, this is worth much to us; but you are worth far more." He barked an order in Haradrim and Tanathel went for her sword, only to have it wrested from her grip as Boromir and Borlan were disarmed as well. "You will be our price for this outpost's survival."

Tanathel spat on the ground at his feet. "You have no honor," she snarled. "We came under a flag of truce!"

You dare speak to me of honor? the Haradrim growled back as he struck her across the face. She went to the ground from the force of the blow and the guards dragged her back up, holding her arms tightly and gagging her securely as Boromir gave a wordless shout of fury at the betrayal. Borlan lunged forward only to go to his knees, an incredulous expression fading rapidly from his face as his hands grasped the dagger hilt protruding from his chest. You have no understanding of the word. He is but the first; another such outburst from either of you and you will follow him in death. Even animals such as yourselves should be able to understand that. 

Boromir caught Tanathel's eye, rage in his own, but he gave her a tiny nod. He understood none of what was being spoken, but it was plain that a line had been crossed. It would serve no purpose for them to die now; perhaps, by submitting to their captor's demands they would be able to learn more of the enemy's plans. She subsided with poor grace, murderous fury in her dark eyes.

They were forced along at a great pace until finally they reached the Haradrim encampment. There, they were roughly thrust into a small pavilion and bound tightly, so tightly they could not hope to move. Their gags were replaced with stronger ones, made from leather so they couldn't possibly chew through them, and Boromir knew a moment's despair. He tried to catch Tanathel's eye, hoping to reassure her, though she remained turned from him. The tension in her slender frame suggested she might have an idea what awaited them, but he could not allow himself to lose hope.

The fear in her dark eyes gave him pause when she finally turned to him. He jerked his head forward, indicating that she should try to move closer, but the guards separated them roughly at the first sound of movement and tied them back to back. He settled for linking his fingers with hers, trying to show her his support in that fashion. She gave him a slight pressure in return and they waited in silence for the next move in this game of chess.

**(Southern Gondor/Outpost)**

Faramir reined in his horse, looking down from the slight rise into the garrison. All seemed quiet, but he had learned quickly that in war things usually weren't as they seemed. He gave a signal for the men to move forward and let his mount pick his careful way down toward the gates.

They encountered no resistance, though the enemy encampment was within sight, and it only served to sharpen Faramir's unease. Something was dreadfully wrong; he could feel it.

His worst suspicions were confirmed when Mithlan hurried forward and pulled him aside as the others filed in. "Welcome, my lord," he said simply as he gave a glance toward the south. "Lord Boromir has been captured," he explained softly and urgently. "He went out under a flag of truce and was betrayed. We could not even counterattack, as they were out of archery range."

"Even the longbows?" Faramir couldn't credit what he was hearing. Boromir wouldn't be so foolish as to meet where they couldn't escape. What had his brother been thinking? Unless it had been a sign of good faith…

"Even the longbows," Mithlan confirmed. "Not even you could have spanned the distance, Captain."

Faramir nodded curtly. "We will do what we can, Mithlan, never fear. Keep a constant guard on the surround, crews at the catapults, and sentries at the gate. Not even a mouse moves without being reported." He let his gaze be drawn south, wondering what was happening to his brother and tamping down the purely personal urge to simply go and find him. There were many things to be done, many preparations to be made, before he could mount a rescue mission. Resolutely, he turned his mind to the necessary tasks and forced himself to attend to them.

**(Minas Tirith)**

Aragorn tossed restlessly upon his chaise. He had forsaken the comfort of his bed once more, unable to rest in the room with the absence of Arwen. His dreams had become more and more dark since her death; this night, they threatened his very sanity.

Again and again, he relived that final, fateful temptation offered by Sauron. Again and again, he relived the bitterness of his betrayal as he refused Sauron's offer, refused the possibility of Arwen being returned to him in the flesh, whole and healthy. Again and again, he felt the pain of that final separation from his beloved, from the one woman he had loved, the one woman he would always love, the one woman he would forever remain faithful to.

He came awake with a start as he saw the blade descend toward her once more, heaving for breath in the dim predawn light. His eyes sought out every corner of the room, certain he would see attackers concealed in the shadows, but the room was empty save for himself. Slowly, he forced himself to relax again, but sleep eluded him. The weight of failure was heavy upon him. Arwen had forsaken the immortality of the Elves to remain by his side, and he had failed to keep her safe.

He wondered if his Ada knew, in the mists of Valinor, wondered if Elrond would forgive him this failure. Elrond had set him many tasks, many feats over the years he had been Aragorn's foster father before he would allow Aragorn to wed his daughter, and Aragorn had failed none of them until now. He had failed in perhaps the most important test of his life. He had failed miserably.

He groaned and rose, walking out onto the balcony and resting his hands upon the balustrade, gazing out over the city, a familiar feeling of unease building inside him. Something was building in the south; he had known it even before he had sent troops to reinforce the outpost. With news of the garrison's fall, it had intensified; and it got worse every day there had been no word from Faramir, who had been sent with the rest of Gondor's able-bodied men to assist his brother if necessary.

With his Steward and the Captain-General both out of the city, there was no one to take the burden of leadership from him, not even for a moment. He felt every one of his years this night, achingly aware of the differences between the Numenorean blood he bore and those of other descent. Not for the first time, he wished he could lay down his burdens and depart; but there was no other to take them up, and so, he remained.

The chill of the air gained his attention and he took a deep breath, wondering at it. Winter lay heavy on the land, but this chill simply didn't seem right. It was deeper than he'd felt before, seeming to strike to the very heart of him. He went in to sit before the fire, reaching out toward it in a vain attempt to return some warmth to his bones.

Finally he gave an enormous sigh and reached for his cup, intending to brew some tea. Perhaps that would help him return to sleep, though the sun was now rising and he had duties to attend. Very well, he could still have the tea. It would hopefully relax him enough that he could keep his mind on what must be done this day…

…and keep it off what might be happening in the desert to the south…

**TBC**


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**(Northern Harad)**

Boromir struggled not to cry out from the pain, but the feel of the lash against a back already raw defeated him. Scream after scream forced its way from his throat and he was reduced to deep sobbing breaths when he heard the order to stop. Dimly, he heard Tanathel's cries from a distance and tried to focus on them, but his own pain was too great.

He tried to force up his courage, but it, too, was flagging. Dully he realized that if his tormentors continued, there would be a fresh grave by the morning.

"Tell me the strength in your White City, Bo-ro-mir, and they will give you a quick death." The Haradrim general had been present during most of the torture, though he had said little. A speculative gleam lit his eyes, however, when he saw Boromir paying close attention to the screams from without the structure. "The _mahlakh _means something to you, does she?" he crooned as he tipped up the captive's face.

"No more than any other of my men," Boromir managed to grate out furiously. Eru, but her cries were piercing! He controlled a shudder of dread, but only just.

Bring her, the general demanded as he gave Boromir an absent slap. If he knows nothing, then he is worthless to us. And the _mahlakh_ will pay the price.

Tanathel was dragged in and unceremoniously dumped on the floor before Boromir and he gave no hint of his fury at the sight of her. She had been stripped of her armor, her tunic and leggings were in rags, and she gave mute evidence of a dreadful beating with both whip and fist. Her dark eyes found his and he saw the fear in them, fear coupled with a fury that knew no bounds. He would not like to have that rage directed toward him! He held her gaze, willing her to understand he had no choices. He could not yield to the enemy, no matter what it meant for either of them. Mutely he asked her forgiveness; he feared they would both be dead before sunrise.

"Does she truly mean nothing to you?" came the low question as one of the inquisitor's hands twined into her hair, forcing her head back painfully and baring her throat. Vile speech poured from her lips in a cracked and ragged voice until another man hit her hard enough to send her sprawling again. The general flicked a hand dismissively and one of the men threw her over his shoulder, laughing as he carried her from the tent.

Duty warred with emotion and Boromir lowered his head until he regained control. The general moved around behind him and spoke again, and Boromir heard the unmistakable sizzle of hot iron meeting water. He swallowed convulsively.

"You know this sound, do you not?" the general whispered in his ear. "And you fear it. Tell me your army's strength and I will not use it." Boromir could hear him moving around, but still could not see him.

A heart-rending scream tore the night and Boromir whipped his head around, his eyes blazing in fury. Haradrim soldiers untied his arms and he fought with all his flagging strength, but the effort was futile. He was wrestled to the ground, his arm outstretched before him, his frame pinned so firmly beneath his captors that he could barely draw breath. The general stepped into his sight again and Boromir struggled harder, and just as fruitlessly. The iron was in his vision, glowing red from the fire, though it had been cooled slightly by the water, and he fought to keep from cringing. Curses poured from him, ending in a ragged scream as the iron came down on his forearm, searing the flesh in the shape of a broken sword.

The soldier who had carried Tanathel out appeared in the tunnel of sight left to him and he wondered dully at what was said. The general frowned at something the man told him, but Boromir just couldn't bring himself to puzzle it out. His entire being was focused on the glowing iron that was coming dangerously close to his arm once more.

The general nodded sharply and motioned to his men, and Boromir was released. He pulled his arm close and glared at the Haradrim leader, death in his gaze. No words left his lips; yet the weight of that raging stare had been known to send seasoned soldiers in search of cover. His fury knew no bounds.

"I will tell you not to leave this tent," the Haradrim said slowly and carefully. Then he took his leave and Boromir merely cradled his injured arm to his body, his injuries making themselves felt until he was one massive, throbbing ache. And underneath that ache, there was a small, persistent feeling of triumph; he had not been broken.

One more thought came to him as he lost consciousness. What of Tanathel? Was she still alive?

* * *

Boromir woke to find that his injuries had been tended carefully and he had been placed on a cot, covered warmly. His armor and weapons were nowhere to be found; but clothing had been left for him just the same, a simple tunic and leggings.

His arm throbbed painfully as he dressed himself, wondering at the sudden apparent change in his status. Could he leave the tent? What had brought about this drastic change? Was it simply another trick of the enemy?

He spun when the flap lifted, automatically reaching for his sword and grasping empty air. The Haradrim general gave him a chilly smile and gestured for him to sit on one of the many cushions that had been thrown about. "We must talk, you and I," the man said slowly and carefully.

Boromir sat gingerly, outwardly calm, inwardly seething and more than a little curious beneath the anger. "If you mean for me to betray my people, the answer is no," he said firmly. "I think you know I would die first." He was desperate to know what had happened to Tanathel, but he curbed the impulse to simply ask. He forced himself to be civilized, since his captor was obviously also making an effort to do so.

"I do not mean betrayal, Bo-ro-mir," was the stiff reply. "I am Alajahado. I have been told that things are not as they seem; would you care to explain to me the difference?"

Boromir rubbed absently at his forearm and stifled a hiss of pain. This was no time to be coy; perhaps he could learn a few things to Gondor's benefit by playing along. "I don't understand," he replied quietly.

Alajahado motioned and a woman came to Boromir's side, offering him a cup of what appeared to be wine. He waved her away, his confusion deepening. Something was quite wrong here. Alajahado took one of the cups, sipped generously, and then held it out to Boromir. "You see, I have not poisoned it." He smiled again as Boromir took the cup from him. "I have not the words to explain this to you rightly, though I understand your Westron speech well. A man came to me, several nights ago, at the turning of the moon."

Boromir raised an eyebrow. The timing was right for it to have been Cirin. "Was this man a soldier?" he asked directly, his eyes never leaving Alajahado's face.

The Haradrim shook his head. "No. This man was well-fed, well-dressed. He cared much for his appearance. I did not like him." He allowed his gaze to wander slightly and then drew his attention back to Boromir. "I listened to his tale, of being turned out of his home. He had been exiled, he said, he had lost everything because of a witch. She had cast a spell, it seemed, to make men blind to her plans and he saw through them."

Boromir nodded, his thoughts already leaping ahead. Alajahado continued, his words slow and deliberate. "This witch was of mixed blood, of my people and yours. She was unnatural, she had no heart. She had bespelled the most powerful men in your White City." He gave Boromir a piercing glance. "Including you. He told us she had gained the ear of your king and persuaded him that we would make good slaves."

"I give you my word, that was _never_ our intent," Boromir began evenly. He wished for a moment Faramir was with him, for he had no talent with words. He was a soldier, not a statesman. "We came to reinforce the garrison here because _your_ forces were massing along the border."

"Then we have both been pawns in this man's game, though he will play us no longer against one another," the Haradrim spoke firmly. "I know she is no witch, that you both have honor. You see that you have been well-tended. You are prisoners no longer. You are my guests, though I insist you do not wander unattended, and that for now, you may not leave this encampment. You will not be harmed, unless you attempt to escape."

Boromir seized on the word like a lifeline. "Escape? If we are guests, then we should have no need to _escape,"_ he mocked lightly. He held up a hand. "I will agree to your terms if you will tell me why you have decided in our favor."

Alajahado sighed heavily. "For this, you may wish me harm; I will not stop you. Your woman, the warrior," he said slowly, obviously having difficulty finding the correct words. "I made a gift of her to my second when you would not speak. I had meant to punish you, to take your woman and make a slave of her, for as the rich man told me, she was already a whore to your soldiers. I know now that this was not true, and it cast the rich man's entire story into doubt."

Boromir's fury rose quickly and he launched himself across the intervening space, his hands going around the Haradrim's throat and beginning to squeeze. It was only with a supreme effort that he was able to restrain himself from committing outright murder. The man made no move to stop him or fight him off, and Boromir felt his rage slowly begin to ebb. He released Alajahado with a shove that sent the other man sprawling.

The Haradrim righted himself slowly and allowed a grim smile to cross his face. "This above all proves that you speak the truth. If you had no honor, you would not have stopped until I lay dead at your feet." He went to the flap and said something in his own language, and then seated himself again on the cushions. "Come, sit. I have sent for her, she will join us now. We will talk of our future, your people's and mine."


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**(Southern Gondor Outpost)**

Faramir surveyed his troops with a practiced air, carefully controlling his mount as he passed before them. "You are men of Gondor!" he began simply as he addressed them. "Today you will face our sworn enemy. They have attacked this outpost, which we regained only at great cost, and now they have taken your Captain-General through guile and deceit! No more!"

The men were silent. Faramir could hear the chirp of a lone cricket in the stillness. "We go today to reclaim what is ours! Our people, our lands, our honor!" He drew his blade and it flashed in the dawn sun. "For Gondor! For _Boromir!_"

He signaled them to move out and led them across the plain toward the Haradrim encampment. Only when it was clearly within sight and only slightly out of archery range did he allow them to halt. He nodded to the herald, who sounded a blast on his horn and moved forward a trifle. "My Lord Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, Captain of this Outpost and emissary of King Elessar, Faramir of the House of Hurin, demands that you yield your prisoners to us and depart from these lands!" he called stridently.

No answer came from the encampment. Pikemen gathered in ranks between the Gondorians and the tents, obviously there to keep them at bay. Silence grew until Faramir was certain he could hear the heartbeats of every man in his company, even those of the Haradrim. Finally he nodded. The herald stepped back, his face grim, and the horsemen moved forward to range themselves in a wedge with Faramir at its point. His sword cleared its scabbard with a ringing sound and he held it aloft once more.

Time seemed to slow, then stop. The golden light of the sun dimmed and went out and all was shrouded in darkness. Faramir couldn't move, couldn't draw a decent breath. Then one point of brilliant white light pierced the darkness and he began to tremble.

Boromir lay in state upon a bier of marble, his hands crossed over the hilt of his broadsword, his face composed. His armor lay beside him, burnished and gleaming, and all around him rose the wailing of women, though the language was that of the Haradrim.

His arm fell as daylight returned and he swayed slightly in the saddle, though he recovered quickly. "Hold your positions!" he thundered as he returned his blade to its sheath.

What had the vision meant? He must consider it. Would his brother die if they pressed the attack, or was he already dead? Why would the Haradrim mourn his loss?

Mithlan sidled his mount closer to Faramir, his eyes clearly showing his concern. "A vision, my lord?" he murmured. He had seen the signs before, and Faramir was clearly in distress. Sweat glistened on his face, and his eyes were wide, slightly unfocused.

Faramir nodded, his gaze still held by the enemy camp. "Something is wrong," he said slowly. "They have taken defensive positions, but nothing more. They mounted no attack on the garrison after the initial fight. They allowed us to reinforce it without any form of protest." He shifted his line of sight slightly, but didn't turn. "Why would they betray Boromir if there was no need? What are they up to?" His face grew hard and determined once more. "We will hold our position here. Keep the men at the ready."

* * *

Boromir stiffened when he heard the herald's cry. Faramir, his brother was here! "Alajahado," he began urgently. "This captain is not to be trifled with. He will raze this place to the ground if you do not agree." Would he? Faramir had always been the more level-headed of the two, the more diplomatic. Would he actually mount an assault? Did he have the men to make it a decisive battle? Thousands of questions assailed Boromir's military reasoning but he could not afford to be distracted, nor to appear weak. 

Alajahado nodded crisply. "Your brother has come to fetch you home." The statement was totally without rancor, and Boromir stifled a smile. This man, this chieftain, he would be a valuable ally. _If _of course Faramir didn't simply slit his throat on general principles. "You will, of course, remain here." He departed without haste and Boromir stood, moving swiftly to Tanathel's side.

She had joined them moments before, under the support of some of the Haradrim women and moving very gingerly. She had spoken not a word, and her silence concerned him greatly. Tanathel was not given to introspective silence and he was well aware of the fact. He waited for the outburst he was certain would come.

She didn't disappoint him. Her words began as whispers, but they built quickly into something approaching a suppressed scream of rage. The sheer hatred in her dark eyes, though veiled quickly, gave him pause. He did _not_ envy the man her fury was directed at.

Though he didn't understand the Haradrim language, he knew she was crucifying her attacker. The venom in her words was nearly tangible. He waited only until she ran out of breath to raise an eyebrow at her. She couldn't have taken any lasting harm. Her self-assurance seemed to be firmly in place. "Feel better?" he asked dryly.

She growled at him, her eyes hooded. "I will once we are away from this wretched place," she snarled. "And once I have that _pohrahn's _eyes for polishing." She winced as she shifted so she could see him clearly from the eye that wasn't swollen. "I am assuming you have a plan for our escape."

"Just a moment," Boromir hissed as he moved closer to the tent flap. He could hear Alajahado barking orders, but he couldn't understand them. Whatever he said, however, was not being well-accepted. "Tanathel, what does _gahnizhkalan_ mean?" he asked tersely, his tongue stumbling over the unfamiliar phrase.

Tanathel gave him an incredulous stare. "You never heard that word here, sir," she replied, her voice heavy with confusion and suppressed pain. She was obviously taking refuge from both by reverting to her training. "It means, 'we surrender.'"

**TBC**


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Special Note: Evendim, ask and ye shall receive LOL It's so good to see you back again! Drop me a line sometime when you have a moment; I've misplaced your new addy…**

**Chapter Seventeen**

Faramir held his men in position, the wedge still facing into the Haradrim encampment, their faces hard and set. The enemy pikemen moved not so much as a hair, and Faramir forced himself to remain still as well, though the force of his vision still held him firmly. What had it meant? Boromir, mourned by the Haradrim? He supposed all things were possible but it made no sense to him.

Mithlan drew his attention to a small band of men just behind the pikemen. This group was different; they watched the Men of Gondor with hard eyes, tension in every inch of their bodies. They had a more ruthless look than the pikers and Faramir forced his expression to remain calm.

"They are merely satisfying their curiosity," he said finally without turning. "We have a smaller force than theirs. Perhaps they are trying to decide if they can win."

But when the white banner appeared, no one could have been more surprised than Faramir. Boromir had been taken while under a white flag; did they mean to try the same again? "Hold your ground and your fire," he ordered as the small knot of men approached them. He watched them come, his eyes narrowed under his helm, his agile mind considering and discarding hundreds of possibilities before they moved into archery range and he could see they were not obviously bearing arms.

"That's close enough," Faramir said clearly, and the three men stopped where they stood, still well within range but not so close they could safely attack. "State your purpose here."

The older one, the obvious leader, bowed low to the ground and then stood facing the assembled company with dignity. "I am Alajahado," he stated simply. "I lead these people in this place. I have come to speak of our countries' futures."

"Your future can be measured in mere moments if your prisoners are not released immediately," Faramir stated bluntly. Behind him, he heard the restless movements of the horses as his men tensed for battle. "There will be no argument. Release them, or pay the penalty with your lives." His voice was cold, steady, and implacable. He would not hesitate; at the first sign of treachery, at the first sign of refusal, he would burn this place from the face of Middle Earth.

"I do not ask for your trust, for it would not be given," came the calm reply. "I ask only that you have speech with me before they are returned to you."

"No." The single word sounded as harsh as a whipcrack in the silence that followed, but Faramir would not be swayed. If he responded to even one of the Haradrim demands, they would have the upper hand and he would not allow that. He must continue to control this meeting. "This is not a negotiation. Return them, or we will destroy your camp, down to the last man. What is your answer?"

One moment ticked by, then two. Then Alajahado bowed low once more and gave a gesture to his second before returning his calm countenance back to the Steward. "A tree that will not bend to the wind will be broken," he said softly. "Manzhanesh has gone to fetch them. Once you see that they still live, we will treat, you and I. There is much to discuss."

* * *

Boromir concealed a start of surprise as Alajahado's second stepped into the tent. He watched his companion from the corner of his eye; Tanathel had every excuse she would ever need to gut the man where he stood, but he couldn't allow that to happen just yet. Events were in motion now that were bigger than the two of them, he could feel it. 

Manzhanesh motioned them to follow and Boromir went, still keeping a cautious eye on the Ranger at his side. They were shown to a larger tent, obviously an armory. "Your weapons and armor are in there," Manzhanesh said slowly and carefully. "They are returned to you. I come back for you when you are ready."

Boromir held in his shock quite well; no more than a raised eyebrow as he held the flap for Tanathel to enter. He was beginning to wonder about her; she had been silent through the exchange, and it was unlike her not to voice an opinion of some sort. Particularly when she held the man in question in contempt.

She did not disappoint him. Once they were alone in the armory, another spate of vile language erupted and she banged her fist off the table. Then she grabbed her armor and began to put it on, muttering under her breath and generally looking furious. Boromir began to pull on his own, knowing that she would need assistance before long. Buckling into your armor could be, and most times was, a two-man job. He normally had a squire to help him; who did she have?

The question pounced on him unaware and refused to be shoved aside. Not good, especially when he needed his wits about him. Later, he promised himself firmly.

She managed creditably on her own, and he stifled a totally unexpected surge of disappointment. He saw the question in her eyes as he straightened, his own armor in place. "Alajahado says we are honored guests," he remarked acidly. "Either he is going to release us, or he wants us armed before he kills us. Which makes no sense, either."

"Nothing about this makes sense." Her words were flat, angry. "Nothing. I was raised a Haradrim, but I'll never understand them. My father taught me everything he knew about them, but I'll never be able to think like them."

Boromir would have replied, but Manzhanesh had returned. He turned his attention to the Haradrim second, still watching Tanathel. There was no question in his voice. "You are releasing us." What could they possibly gain?

Manzhanesh nodded curtly. "Come. I take you to your people. We go now."

**TBC**


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Eighteen**

**(Minas Tirith)**

Aragorn stepped out onto his balcony once more, his mind in turmoil.

Arwen was everywhere he turned, everywhere he went. Her presence was almost tangible at times, so much so that he was certain if he turned quickly enough he would see her. His heart tore anew each time he looked for her and she wasn't there.

Sometimes he wondered if he were going mad. He would feel her touch on his arm, hear her whisper in his ear, once he even felt her presence while he was alone in his study. She haunted him.

Yes, that was the right word. She haunted him, and he had no peace by day or night. The question in his mind was why?

Arwen, who had been so gentle in life, yet so fierce. Arwen, who had embraced life in the way of the Elves, was now tempting him to forget his teachings and throw his own away. Arwen, who had forsaken the immortality of the Elves to remain with him as his wife, was now reminding him of his own mortality by her death.

He leaned against the balustrade, watching the lights of the City beneath him. Life went on apace, it seemed, with little regard for his loss or his torment. Men sat at their hearths now, in the depths of the evening, relaxing while their wives bustled about setting food on the table and seeing to their comforts. Those who had no wives could be found at the pubs, unburdening themselves in their own fashions.

He found himself envying them those simple pleasures. Once, he would have done the same; come home here, to Arwen, and merely been filled with joy to be in her presence. Now, the emptiness was all that he returned to at each day's end.

His mind shied away from the despair the thought held and turned to the matters in the south. No word had yet come from Faramir, and that was a bad sign. Things were obviously getting worse there; if his Steward had no time to send a report, they must be in a terrible situation. Either that, or the garrison had fallen and taken his friends with it.

What manner of creature was he? He offered love, and delivered only death. His friends, his family, those who looked to him for his protection and his heart, he had brought only death to them. Theoden, dying on the Fields of the Pelennor; Boromir, who had fallen first at Amon Hen and even now may be dying in torment; Gandalf had fallen in Moria; Arwen. The list went on, over a long lifetime that was not yet half spent. Tears burned his eyes as he thought of them all, all those he had brought to death from love of him.

Once more he contemplated how easy it would be to simply join Arwen in death. They would be together, together as they should have been in life.

No! Suicide was a selfish, hateful act. He would not tarnish her memory in that fashion! Unfortunately, it brought him full circle. He could almost hear her voice in his ear...

"_Amin dele ten' lle."_

Madness, this was madness. He had heard her speak those words before; it had to be a memory. A short bark of bitter laughter escaped and became a sob. How could she be worried about him? She wasn't with him, she was gone, gone forever.

His fingers closed about the Evenstar he still wore and abruptly he steadied. Peace settled into his heart, peace such as he had seldom felt in the past few months. He settled onto his chaise, his eyes heavy and his mind calm. And when he dreamed, he dreamed of Arwen.

**(South Gondor/Northern Harad)**

Faramir's face remained set in hard lines as he watched the trio approach. The setting sun cast a fiery pall over the plain, giving it an unreal quality.

They seemed to be moving under their own power, and he relaxed slightly. They bore the unmistakable signs of abuse, though, he noted as they came closer. Boromir was moving quite stiffly, and though he might not even notice it, one arm was held slightly apart from the rest of him as though pained. And though her face bore liberal bruising and she was also stiff and slow, it was Tanathel's eyes that held his gaze. There was a stillness in them that disturbed him, a sense of overwhelming rage barely controlled.

Boromir turned to Alajahado and nodded slightly. Tanathel merely shouldered by him silently and moved toward the horsemen, moving toward the rear of the formation as if to put as much distance between the Haradrim and herself as possible.

Alajahado spoke again, his voice firm. "As you have asked, so it has been done. They are returned to you, perhaps not in the best of health, but they are returned. Now, we will speak of our futures." There was a thread of steel in the words; Faramir heard it as clearly as he could feel his mount beneath him. "You will have your men stand down. We do not come in surrender. We do come in peace."

Faramir merely held the man's gaze for a moment. His own voice was as strong as he answered. "They will stand down, for now. We are returning to the garrison. We will send a messenger when we are ready to meet with you." He held his enemy's gaze a heartbeat longer. "You have kept your word in this. We will keep ours. We will not attack without provocation; but if you attack us, we will destroy you. That is my vow." He turned his horse and gave the signal to withdraw.

The ride back to the garrison was fairly short, but it afforded him a few moments to be alone with Boromir. Mithlan had taken Tanathel up with him, so he paused long enough to allow Boromir to swing onto the saddle skirt. He heard a muffled curse and a smile finally crossed his face. "That's more like it," he said genially. "You'd been so quiet I wasn't sure they gave me back the right brother," he teased.

Boromir only grunted as he shifted position, trying to get more comfortable. "You were handling things well," he replied evenly. "Very well. I'm impressed."

No small praise, coming from the Captain-General himself, even _if_ the man was also his brother. Faramir allowed himself a moment more to bask in Boromir's approval. "You taught me well." Then he turned matters serious once more. "How badly are you hurt? Tell me true."

Boromir ignored the question and quickly recounted his time in the Haradrim camp. "He kept his word to me, we were unharmed from the moment Manzhanesh came back. They treated our wounds, treated us like honored guests. I don't understand it." He grimaced as he swung down inside the outpost. "I need Tanathel. She can explain it. There wasn't time before."

"You need to let the healers look you over, and then you need to rest." Faramir spoke sternly, as much from duty as from love of his brother. "I haven't turned command back to you, yet. And I want to be certain you're able for it before I do." Going out beyond archery range had been more than foolish, it had been nearly suicidal. He caught his tongue before he mentioned it, though the words hung as clearly between them as the light from the torches along the wall. He needed to know that Boromir was truly in his right mind, that nothing had been done to his mind while he was in the Haradrim camp. He would not relinquish command until then.

Boromir recoiled as though he'd been slapped. His Puss had indeed learned well! A feeling of rage swept him at what seemed to be a calculated insult, followed quickly by a surge of pride for this man he called brother. Puss, indeed; no longer a cub, certainly. He had claws and teeth well suited to war, as well as the cunning and grace of the hunting cats. A Tiger. "Sometimes, brother, it is hard to remember you are a man grown and well capable of commanding an entire army," he said ruefully. "Very well, I will let the leeches have me. See that Tanathel is also tended, would you? She has a tendency to overestimate her strength."

Faramir steered Boromir into the Infirmary, not needing to explain that Mithlan had already escorted Tanathel to the healers. Her curses were audible several steps away.

She lay on her stomach and growled as the man held a damp cloth to the back of her shoulder, but subsided quickly when the cool moisture soaked in. Relief from the stinging pain of the burn caught up with her and she felt like purring.

Most of the damage done to her wouldn't be seen, not by this man. She would talk to Calas on her return to Minas Tirith; him, she trusted. She had been beaten badly, with both whip and fist, but none of the marks would take much tending. The burn on her shoulder was by far the worst, except for… she shied away from it. She supposed she was lucky, in a way. The brand could have been applied to her face, where it would be clearly seen. Instead, they had put in on her back, where a tunic would cover it.

The healer was trying to give her something to drink, but she waved him away. She could see Boromir from where she lay, and knew he was in a worse state. She could see the bloody welts where their captors had been overzealous with the lash; but a jerk of his arm caught her eye and she paled. To mark her so was cruel; but this, this was _beyond_ cruelty. Fury welled up in her, rage such as she had never known. She had thought herself furious before, but now she understood the meaning of _towering_ rage. "How _dare_ they?" she stormed as she came off the cot in a bound, pulling her tunic back into place as she did so. She grabbed Boromir's arm and dragged it into the healer's sight, exposing the raw brand to the watching eyes of all present. The two halves of the broken sword gaped up at them and Boromir frowned.

"What are you on about?" he demanded as he allowed the healer to dress the burn. "A brand. It's of no import."

"Yes, it is," she snarled as she showed him the matching mark on her shoulder. "A brand, yes. To the Haradrim, it is a sign of dishonor. It means you can't be trusted. Don't you see? Even if you want to negotiate with them, they won't talk to you! Alajahado will, because he knows, but the others? They'll demand you leave… and be within their rights. They _will not_ trust you, no matter what you say. If they see that mark, they will turn a deaf ear to your words. You have been marked as _vorazhnil._"

She took in their shocked expressions and cursed roundly, both in Haradrim and Common. "It means you have no honor."


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Nineteen**

**(Southern Gondor Outpost)**

Faramir was the first to react to Tanathel's impassioned explanation. "Then the two of you do not attend the negotiations," he stated firmly. He held up a restraining hand when they both began to speak heatedly. "There is much at stake here, too much to risk. They have stained their own honor, and that is a point in our favor."

Boromir settled for nodding curtly. To be excluded from the proceedings galled him bitterly; but he understood the necessity. In truth, Faramir was far better suited for dueling with words. Boromir was much more a man of action than diplomacy. Still, the decision rankled and he wasn't ashamed to show it. His face darkened quickly and his eyes fairly flashed with anger, but he kept it subdued. For him, at least.

He waved away the healer and rose, striding quickly out of the room, his boots sounding a staccato counterpoint to his anger. The echoes followed him through the passages and corridors, giving him no peace for thought, until he burst out onto the parapet. One of the sentries approached him, but he gave the man a simple glare and the sentry backed away, unwilling to provoke Boromir's ire further.

Boromir was in a state, to put it simply. He ranged back over his decisions of the last few days and groaned to himself as his fury turned inward. How could he have been so _stupid?_ Had he lost his edge, his intuition? He had _known_ the Haradrim didn't want to fight, had felt it down to his boots. But why, _why_, had he gone so far out of range? He told himself that it had been a gesture of good faith, that there had to be a starting point for trust, but that explanation no longer placated him. He had been caught like an unbreeched youngster fresh out of the nursery.

He had misjudged. He had misjudged, and it had cost Borlan his life, and Tanathel…

Tanathel. Eru, but she had endured much for Gondor's sake! Boromir could not fully understand the horror she had suffered; yet he knew in his heart that she had indeed suffered, was _still _suffering from the Haradrim torments, though she hid it well. His lapse had caused no end of harm.

How, _how _could he have been so mistaken? He had been a warrior all his life, had been in command for most of his adult life. Yet this mistake… it wasn't to be borne. It _couldn't_ be borne.

Not for the first time, he wondered just exactly what Saruman had done to him. The wizard had resurrected him; had he left something out, had he tainted Boromir's mind in some way, had he perhaps _intended _such a disastrous turn of events? He was no longer certain, no longer certain of himself, of who he was. He _felt_ the same, he thought, but how to be sure? _Something_ had certainly addled his wits!

Darkness brought no peace to his thoughts; still his doubts twisted and turned within him as the night wore on. Had Faramir been right after all, with his thinly veiled reference to Boromir's fitness for command? He knew his brother well; there would have been no mention of it had there been no question in his heart.

Perhaps he had inherited his father's madness? For Denethor had been truly mad at the end of his life, driven to madness by what he had glimpsed in the _palantir._ Or had the madness been there all along, needing only the right stimulus to bring it to the fore?

The thought chilled him to the bone. Mad, it had been mad to meet the enemy out of firing range, even under a flag of truce. Madness. He _must _have been insane to have even considered such a thing, much less _do_ it!

He allowed himself to slide down the wall, seating himself with the cool stone at his back. He hadn't even his armor to protect him from the night's chill; it had been removed in the infirmary and his tunic was no match for the light breeze from the south. The cold seemed to have seeped into his very bones, but was it from the wind, or was it from within himself? He didn't know. He remained on the parapet, his forearms resting on his knees, the brand forgotten, his mind in turmoil.

Faramir started to follow his brother from the room but a lean, tanned hand snagged his arm before he had taken two steps. "Let him go," Tanathel spat. "You've done enough." Her anger rolled off her in waves; Faramir forced himself not to take a step backward from the force of it, though he understood somehow that it was not completely directed at him.

"Not nearly enough," he snapped back as he shook off her restraining fingers. He forced himself to regain his composure, though inside he burned with anger and yes, shame, at what he had done. "He cannot command if he is not himself. That mistake cost _all_ of us dearly, Tanathel, not just the two of you. Borlan is _dead._ Whether for good or ill, his decision was the wrong one. He should not have ventured out of range."

"What if he'd been right?" Tanathel was steadfastly defending her commander, her friend.

"_It doesn't matter."_ Faramir kept his voice even. He waited until he was certain he had her full attention. "It is my _duty_ to question his decision to risk himself. It is my _duty_ to see that the damage done by his rash decision is controlled. It is my _duty _to make him question himself and his fitness for command. It is my _duty _to Gondor, to the King, and to Boromir himself."

Silently he willed her to understand all he had left unsaid. He _could not _tell her how his duty was twisting a knife in his guts, how he longed to go to his brother and beg forgiveness for doubting him. How he felt ill at the fact that he had to take such a stand, and against his beloved brother. How he hated himself for the doubt in his mind, and yet owed it to these men to protect them from such doubts. They must have a strong leader, a commander, and Boromir _could not_ be strong enough while these doubts remained.

He held her gaze until he saw the flare of comprehension. Her father had taught her well. She understood duty perfectly. "Aye," she said softly. "I see the need for your actions, your words. So will Boromir. But he will also blame himself for the necessity--- rightly so--- and take it too much to heart. But I still think if you go to him, it will make matters worse." Her dark eyes were veiled, now; the anger was well hidden. "He needs time to decide who he is more angry with. You, or himself."

Faramir nodded as he allowed himself to relax slightly. "Of course you're right." He sounded chagrined. She knew his brother as well as he, himself did, it seemed. He gestured for her to accompany him and left the Infirmary, leading her into the Mess instead. He quickly drew off two tankards of ale and set one in front of her firmly. "Drink up," he ordered. "You're as tight as a bow string, and you won't get much sleep if you don't relax." When she had finished the brew, he refilled her mug and settled across from her, his expression serious. ""Now, give me a report. I've heard Boromir's version. I want yours."

He kept her talking for some time, unobtrusively refilling her mug whenever she appeared to be dry, taking judicious sips from his own (though not imbibing nearly so much as he pressed on her), occasionally firing a question or two at her about a point she had made. And when she was finished, he caught her eye again and was surprised at what he saw there.

"You're not nearly as sneaky as you must have thought," she said slowly and with great care. She had known all along what he was up to, and allowed it. He gave her a small smile.

"Well, then, I think that is enough for tonight," he replied evenly. "Get some rest, Tanathel. And report to me in the morning. I have a duty for you."


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Twenty**

**(South Gondor Outpost)**

Boromir stepped into the Mess in the small hours of the morning, the chill having finally driven him from the wall. Eru, but this place was cold at night!

"You'll catch your death if you don't get something warm inside you," Faramir said clearly from across the room. "Or at least wear your cloak."

Boromir settled on the bench opposite his brother, mug in hand. "And what are you doing up?" he asked softly as he drained the stew. He made a face. "With all the supplies at hand here, they had to make it taste vile," he grumbled good-naturedly.

"Of course it's vile. It's scout rations. If you want food, you'll have to wait until breakfast." Faramir had to fight the urge for everything to be as it once was with his brother as he grinned across the table. They had not truly had a chance to talk much since Boromir's rather spectacular return from death; and now Faramir was forced to consider that there was more to _that_ than met the eye. The brother he knew would _never _have risked himself so needlessly. They had to sort this out before it was too late. The questions remained unasked as his smile faded; he could not bring the words to his lips.

Boromir sighed heavily and regarded his mug. He knew what Faramir wanted to discuss, what he _needed _to discuss. Unfortunately, he had no answers. "I do not know what possessed me to make such a rash, headstrong, _stupid_ move," he said simply. "I only know that at the time, it seemed the right thing to do. I felt it in my heart, I was so certain they would respond to the outstretched hand of friendship… and for a man who has spent most of his adult life fighting them, that is lunacy." He shook his head.

"It would seem so," Faramir murmured. "Did you never wonder why we didn't simply take you back by force?" He kept his voice bland, as though the answer mattered little. In truth, it mattered a great deal to him; it would show him whether his brother could be trusted. He knew it on a deep, almost unconscious level. "We could have destroyed their camp easily with the men I brought."

Boromir controlled a start of surprise and took refuge for a moment in his mug. "Rules of engagement," he replied automatically. "One must always give the enemy a chance to respond, even though the courtesy would not be returned. Just because the enemy _is_ the enemy, it doesn't make them inhuman." He glanced over at Faramir, grinning. "Unless, of course, they're not human."

Faramir sat back a moment, obviously deep in thought. Just like Boromir, he mused, to take a serious question and turn it into a jest. He wondered for a moment whether he should reveal his vision, and then thrust the thought away. It seemed to have no bearing on their discussion, at least for the moment. One more test, one more seemingly unrelated question, and he would either breathe easier or have to face the unthinkable. "I must send a report to the King," he began slowly. "He will be pacing the halls by now, having heard nothing from us, wondering if we've been overrun. I would say nothing of your decision to him, if you wish."

"Are you mad?" Boromir thundered as he rose. "I _will not_ hide from this! What I have done, I have done, and I will _not _hide it!" He turned away and then faced Faramir once more, his disbelief clear in his green eyes, his shock nearly palpable. "I made a mistake. A costly one. I will _not _add deceit to the list of crimes that lay even now at my feet! How could you even _suggest_ such a thing?"

Faramir remained seated, his eyes never leaving the table. This, this was the Boromir he knew; be damned that he had reacted like an untried recruit and nearly gotten himself killed. "If I had not asked, I would have forever wondered if you truly were my brother," he whispered. "You would never have stood for concealing the truth, no matter who it harmed."

Finally Boromir understood what it had cost Faramir to keep such a distance between them, to have doubted him so completely. The shock was humbling, to say the least. He sank back down to the bench and reached across the table, tilting his brother's face up to his and seeing those wide blue eyes full of relief. "Ah, Puss," he said softly. "Nay, no longer a kitten. You have grown strong, little brother."

Faramir gave him a wide grin and sat back slightly to stretch his legs out completely under the table. "We respect each other, let's leave it at that," he said simply. "You need rest. You're not quite back on top form yet, though I judge with a little sleep, that will be set to rights. And we'll need clear heads to consider what to do about the bloody Haradrim just across our border. I'm still not convinced they mean to negotiate."

"If Alajahado truly means to negotiate, he will." Boromir's voice was steady. "Honor is the most important thing in their culture, Tanathel says. He gave his word we would be treated well, and we were. He returned us to you at your… request seems such a timid word for it." He was smiling, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. He would not speak of his torment to his little brother, not now. Their discussion thus far had been on borrowed time; the Haradrim would call on them to honor the promise of a meeting before too many more hours had passed, he was certain of it.

Men began to trickle into the Mess and the brothers exchanged glances as they noted that time had continued its steady march while they were otherwise engaged. Dawn had come.

Tanathel came up beside them, already in her armor, her helm held carefully under one arm as she nodded acknowledgement to them. "Reporting as ordered, sir," she said firmly.

"Sit down, Lieutenant." Faramir gestured and she sank down next to Boromir. "You're to take a message to His Majesty. Give him a full report on what has happened here, and let him know that we are entering into negotiations with the Haradrim. We will return as soon as those negotiations are completed, or send word if we are unable to do so." He gave her a very pointed glance. "Need I remind you this is for Aragorn's ears only? We cannot discount the presence of spies within the City, not completely, not yet."

Tanathel nodded briskly. "Of course. I'll leave as soon as I can saddle a horse." She rose and would have collided with Nallis had he not side-stepped quickly. "My lords, there is a delegation from the Haradrim at the gate. They bear a white flag, and we could see no weapons; but they ask to speak with the lieutenant and the Captain-General."

Tanathel exchanged glances with Boromir, who only shrugged. His interest was piqued; but he hid it well. Boromir looked to Faramir, one eyebrow raised. "You are still in command, little brother," he said softly.

Faramir grumbled something unintelligible under his breath and rose, leading the way out to the gates. Three Haradrim stood just outside, their hands clutching the halters of three fine golden stallions, making no attempt to enter the compound. They bore no visible arms. Their leader stepped forward, still remaining outside the gates. "I am sent from Alajahado to Faramir, Prince of Gondor." He handed a parchment to Faramir and bowed low. "He says you read not our words, but he not write yours. _Phelzhezh, _woman warrior, she tell to you his words."

Tanathel took the message and scanned it, her eyes the only indication of her confusion. "He says these horses are a gift, to you, me, and Boromir. They are the finest stallions of his herd, which can trace its ancestry back to the first days of Rohan, while it was still a part of Gondor. They are gifts because his treatment of us was dishonorable and we have shown ourselves to be _ghaszh, _most highly honored and honorable." She raised her eyes to the others. "He says that this is in no way part of the negotiations between our countries; he does this because he has an obligation to repay our forgiveness and graciousness in allowing him to live, after dishonoring himself in such a fashion."

The messenger stepped forward again and laid the lead rope into Tanathel's fingers. _"Mazh nah tomo nala Tesoro. Nazh ahknari ie bahnan." _Then he stepped back to allow the others forward. Each man carefully repeated the words after giving the leads to Boromir and Faramir. Then each man in turn touched his forehead, bowed low, and departed.

Tanathel gave her new mount a scratch between his eyes, unable to look directly at the men. "Boromir, your horse is named Doronazh, Golden Wind. Faramir, you have Mizhtahl, Golden Star, and this is Tesoro, Golden Treasure." She gave the horse another rub across his muzzle. "Those were ceremonial words; no answer was needed. 'May this mount match your courage and bring wealth to your home.' This is a very generous gift." She pulled herself back from her thoughts. "I'll get him saddled and ride for Minas Tirith."

"You'll need to ride light," Boromir said as he handed Doronazh over to one of the stable boys. "I'll help you with your armor. You, Ciron, get the horse ready. Tanathel, over here." He motioned her to one of the empty stalls and started to undo the catches on her breastplate without thinking. It bought him a horrific thump on the head as she clouted him with her helm.

"I can do it myself, Boromir, I'm not helpless!" she snapped. However it was the fear in her dark eyes that convinced him he should perhaps not be too close.

He silently cursed the Haradrim again, knowing exactly what had put that terror into her and wishing desperately that he could alleviate it. A strong woman like Tanathel should have no fears, and definitely not of _him._ It had been quickly hidden, but he had seen it clearly just the same. He backed away, one hand raised in what he hoped was a calming fashion, the other rubbing at the rising knot on the back of his skull. "No, you are most certainly not helpless," he replied ruefully.

She quickly shrugged out of her heavy armor, leaving her leathers in place and turned to regard him, her expression quickly shifting from impatience to exasperation. "Oh, let me see it," she huffed as she drew his hand from his thick skull. "Barely even a bump. But I am sorry I hit you." She turned away to gather the rest of her gear; it was winter, she would need at least a cloak, regardless of how light she needed to be. Blanket and bedroll, a small sack of provisions, and her quiver. Her bow. Her blades. Mentally she checked each item off; she was as ready as she was going to be.

Boromir turned her to face him, giving her the room to evade him if she chose. "Apology accepted. Now never mind my head. I have additional orders for you," he said gruffly. "Stay close to Aragorn. Something in all this isn't right but I can't explain it more clearly."

She nodded in response, making no move to dislodge the hand resting on her forearm. She had felt it herself; the sudden switch in Alajahado's treatment of them, the Haradrim's sudden willingness to negotiate… she had been raised as a Haradrim, she knew the value of honor to them, but it simply didn't feel right. "Understood," she said softly. She caught his clear gaze and was unable to look away.

Boromir slowly raised his fingers from her forearm to lay them against her cheek. "There's barely a scar," he murmured. "Promise me you will be careful." What was it about her? He felt as if he were seeing her clearly for the first time.

She nodded mutely, unable to speak or look away. Desperately she tried to still her trembling knees. This was Boromir! He was her friend, he would do nothing to harm her. And it was quite natural for a friend to worry over a long journey. So why did it feel like something more?

Boromir was undone. He caught her to him, holding her tightly, yet loose enough that she could break free if she wished.

A discreet cough behind them acted as a bucket of ice water and they broke the kiss guiltily, both stunned at the force of their reaction to the other. "I have to go," she murmured as she stepped past him.

He watched as she went to Tesoro, saddled and waiting for her, watched as she took final instruction from Faramir, watched as she began to move away. Quickly he moved to the wall, returning her to his sight as swiftly as he was able. She was almost to the rise that would take her from his view when suddenly she slid Tesoro to a stop and turned toward the outpost once more.

Her blade flashed in the sun as she saluted them with it. Then she was gone, the sound of her passage fading as the day brightened. Boromir gave one last, lingering glance toward the road and then returned to his duties.

**TBC**


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

**(South Gondor)**

Faramir watched his brother unobtrusively as the day wore on. Oh, Boromir was attending to his duties as Captain-General well enough, as well as he always had; but there was a restlessness about him that spoke volumes to the younger Hurin. It was hard to hide the grin that threatened to break through whenever he thought of what he'd witnessed in the stables. Nothing untoward, of course, or he'd have had to address the issue. No, it had merely been the sound of hearts breaking all through the White City. Boromir had finally met his match.

And from the look of things, it was quite a match. Tanathel certainly had been a more than willing participant in that kiss; the problem now facing Faramir was one he wasn't certain he wanted to face. His brother had a certain… _reputation_… with the ladies, but it wasn't the ladies of the court and Faramir wasn't quite sure he'd ever given the matter any thought. He would quite probably need some lessons on the finer points of courting.

Then again… Tanathel certainly wasn't shy. If she didn't like something, she let one know in no uncertain terms. And she certainly wasn't very ladylike, either, not when she was in full soldier dress. Resolutely he tabled his temptation to interfere and turned his attention back where it belonged.

The sentries on the wall had all told him the same thing; there was an enormous amount of activity in the Haradrim encampment. Nothing specific had been mentioned, but Faramir was uneasy. It could be nothing. It probably was nothing. But the increased activity wasn't a good sign.

He didn't move when Boromir joined him at the map table. "It isn't looking good, Faramir," he said simply. "Whatever Alajahado's beliefs are, whatever his code of honor, I don't think they will wait much longer to move." He dropped down in the seat opposite his little brother and gazed at him expectantly.

Faramir nodded agreement. "No, I think you're right. It's what their move will be that concerns me." He narrowed his eyes slightly as he regarded the Captain-General. "I've seen that look before. I've forgotten something important, haven't I?" He cast his mind back frantically over the past few hours.

"You never forget anything, Fara-mine," Boromir chided gently. "But the situation has changed. You are not only still in command, you will remain so." He held up a hand to still the impending outburst. "Hear me out! Aragorn named you as his Heir, little brother. Because he has faith in you, in your ability to lead. I have the same faith. But _you_ must command here, and not I. It is not only your right, as Crown Prince, it is your _duty._" He softened his voice slightly. "All of our lives, you have felt inadequate next to me. Our father encouraged that feeling, for whatever reason. And I say to you now, that Aragorn would _never_ have entrusted the future of Gondor to anyone incapable of defending her in every way. You have showed your steel to these Haradrim; you have showed it to _me._ Now you must show it to yourself."

Faramir turned his gaze out the window for a moment, needing the time to compose himself. It was true, that he had been in his brother's shadow since almost before he could remember, placed there by their father for whatever mad reason he had held. And after Boromir's untimely death during the Quest, he had found his strength somehow, almost as though his brother still watched over him from beyond the veil. Always he had drawn on Boromir's support to do what needed to be done; and now, as ever, that support was freely given. He turned back, mischief glinting in his blue eyes.

"We'll consider that settled for the moment," he said nonchalantly. "But you are in command of this outpost, Boromir, and I'll hear no argument on that point." How to bring up the subject of Tanathel? He couldn't resist such an excuse to tease his brother, and it appeared nothing was going to occur in the next few minutes anyway. "You've been a bit distracted today." Gently, gently… and then move in for the kill when Boromir took the bait. He sternly redirected the grin that threatened to appear into a thoughtful, concerned expression.

Boromir laughed heartily. "Oh, no, you don't," he shot back smoothly as he waggled a finger at his brother. "I know perfectly well it was you who gave us such a discreet warning." He couldn't help it. He knew he was grinning foolishly, but did nothing to school his expression. "Though I wish you would have waited one moment longer." His face reddened; he was acting the schoolboy again. Eru, what was _wrong_ with him? Never before had he allowed _anything _to delay a message or mission for Gondor's sake.

Faramir could no longer hold in his laughter. It was so priceless, watching the big dunce so steadfastly refusing to see what Faramir had known for weeks, since the night he had found them in the Silver Trumpet Tavern. He was missing Tanathel, it was obvious. Well, obvious to him, anyway. He folded his arms over his stomach to try and control his mirth, though he feared it was a futile exercise. "Indeed, I imagine you do," he managed to choke out. And yes, he recognized that lost, dazed expression his brother wore all too well; it was the one _he'd _worn when he first encountered Eowyn. "It's not anything wrong, Boromir," he squeezed out between chortles. "Or rather, it is, and that's why you are so confused." He couldn't keep his face straight, though, and started in again while Boromir gave him a disdainful glare.

"Why don't you enlighten me, little brother," he growled. He was in no mood to be the brunt of Faramir's jest; there was an ache inside him that simply refused to be quieted. He missed Tanathel, missed her with every fiber of his being. He feared for her safety, although he knew her to be a crack shot and an excellent swordswoman. There were beings out there that would laugh at her skills, however, and he fretted.

Faramir sobered himself quickly at the peevish note in Boromir's voice. Time to pay the piper, he supposed. "You miss her." It was a simple statement.

Boromir came to his feet in a rush, all his pent-up frustrations sending him on a circuit of the room, ending him up in front of the window where he could clearly see the northward road beyond the gates. "Yes. I miss her." The admission seemed to take some of the fight out of him; he hitched himself onto the window ledge and looked out. "Eru's Blood, Fara, you sent her _alone_!"

"Yes." Faramir came to his own feet, crossing to stand near his brother, yet not too near. "And so would you have done, were you thinking as her commander and not as a suitor."

Boromir itched to shove that too-knowing smirk down his brother's throat, but he suppressed the urge. Barely. Fara was right. He needed to clear his mind if they were going into battle; and from the look of things, it could come to that. His worry for Tanathel he tucked down deep inside his heart; the ache he felt at her absence right along with it. Time enough later to deal with all these strange new feelings she had provoked in him. Duty first, as it would ever have to be.

"You never truly get used to it," Faramir said softly. "I died a thousand deaths when Eowyn rode to Rohan, fearful that she would be slain on the way and I would not know. A thousand more when I realized she was with the host before the Gates of the City. But if you truly love her, you won't try to change her into something she isn't. It wasn't any simpering miss of the Court who stole your heart, Boromir. It was a warrior maid, and you would have her no other way."

Boromir had stiffened his posture and now leaned a bit further out. "We'll talk more of this later, Fara," he announced as he headed for the door. "They're moving closer. And I see no white flag."

* * *

Tanathel reined in when the darkness made it foolish to try and continue. She wouldn't risk her horse in unknown terrain, not at full speed. She allowed Tesoro to walk forward as he would, while she searched the surrounding foliage for a likely campsite. 

Finding one was a relief. She was an able rider, to be sure. But from dawn to full dark in the saddle would make even the most stoic of men wish for a comfortable bed. She sank onto the grass with a grateful sigh after tending Tesoro and making sure he was fed. Paradise, to sit on something not moving!

Unfortunately, stopping for the night also gave her time to think. Boromir had kissed her. Boromir had kissed _her._ More than once her fingers strayed to her lips, as though she could still feel his breath mingling with hers. Gods above and below, what was _wrong_ with her? She had a duty to do, a message to deliver. She _could not_ allow herself to be distracted like this!

Her sense of urgency doubled, then tripled, making sleep impossible. Something was very wrong. But at the outpost, or in the City? She had to be certain.

She crept cautiously onto the road, soft and silent, and then stood straight and cursed viciously as she bolted back toward Tesoro. The southern sky behind her was alight with flames.

She should go back. One sword might turn the tide; but what of her orders?

Only for one fleeting moment did she truly consider returning to lend her sword. One blade might turn the battle; but it would not win the war. Faramir had ordered her to the City. Boromir had ordered her to protect the King. She could not fail them.

Tesoro seemed to sense her urgency; he danced in place as she readied herself to ride, and launched himself forward with renewed vigor before she was truly seated.

* * *

"_Amin dele ten' lle."_ The soft Elvish of the phrase was enough to wake him again, and Aragorn groaned at the darkness that still met his now open eyes. He couldn't have been asleep for very long. 

Not long at all, he realized as he rose and again went to the balcony. He settled onto his chaise there and gazed up at the stars, certain he was losing his sanity. To hear Arwen's voice, to feel her so near, it had become a torment to him; and yet he wished always to keep her close to him. Madness.

He drifted, not quite asleep, not quite awake. Memories unfolded, each one less pleasant than the last. Arwen, rousing him from slumber because she had heard something. Arwen, drawing Gwemegil and throwing herself at the men near her children's beds. Arwen, seeing the still and silent way her children lay, allowing her grief to swell into a killing rage and taking many of the intruders into death before Aragorn had also launched himself across the room into the battle. Arwen, taking the vicious strikes without flinching, heedless of the wounds she was receiving, until the final blow cut her throat. Arwen, still and cold, her eyes still wide with shock as he cradled her now lifeless form to him and wept bitter tears.

He jerked himself awake again, driving away the pain in the only way he knew how. He carried himself back inside and into his study, intending to go over some of the petitions he had received.

Pain filled his heart, his mind, his very spirit so completely that he cried out from the force of it. His grief had not lessened; it had merely been biding its time to take him at his weakest. He never made it to his desk; it sent him to his knees, weeping and weakened. His grief was no less for the silence of it; he allowed no sound to pass his lips. His fingers found the Evenstar, still on its chain round his neck, and he wept anew at all that had been taken from him.

A flicker of light caught his eye and he sighed heavily, his interest captured despite the weight that held him on his knees. He turned the charm over in his hands, watching it with silent wonder. The metal had been dull, tarnished, and lifeless, as lifeless as Arwen who now was one with the trees she had so loved; but there seemed to be the barest hint of glimmer to it tonight, when she was near in his heart.

He had heard her say she was worried about him, and passed it off as wishful thinking. Yet the tiniest gleam now lay on the charm, and he heard her speak again. "_Le ú-nach erui."_

Grief faded to wonder as he turned the words over in his mind, and then crashed back stronger than before. It wasn't possible. He wasn't hearing her. Her voice had been stilled forever. She could not be telling him anything. _"You will never be alone."_ It was a lie. He _was_ alone, alone as he had always been.

But the tiniest glimmer remained in the Evenstar…

**TBC**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**A Special Note of Thanks to Ithil-valon for her tireless research into Elvish words and phrases. I absolutely could NOT have done this one without you, mellon-nin. Thank you so much! **

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**A Note: has asked that we no longer give individual reviewer responses in our stories or risk being deleted. So, if you'd like to hear from me, please remember to include an email address in your review so I can respond to it. Thanks bunches!**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

**(Southern Gondor)**

Boromir and Faramir had taken hurried positions on the wall to watch the Haradrim advance. The gates were secure, the walls mended and reinforced; there was little to do now but wait.

The enemy halted mere yards from the fortress walls and held position as Manzhanesh stepped forward. "Alajahado no longer leads my people," he announced, his voice thick with hatred. "And now we will have vengeance for those who have died at the hands of you butchers, you slayers of children. You have one choice: send out your Captain-General and your Prince, and we will leave this place untouched. Refuse, and we will burn this place to the ground, and you along with it."

"They could just as well demand we all surrender, for the satisfaction we will give them," he said softly.

"They will regret their decision to attack," Faramir agreed quietly. "Everything is ready." He stepped forward, stopping just short of the edge. "Everyone down from the walls. Nallis, are you ready?" He received a nod from the soldier. "This is it, then. Boromir, just as we discussed." Boromir gave him a brazen wink and left the wall, and Faramir turned his attention back to the Haradrim. "Your terms are rejected," he thundered. "You will not win this fortress from us. We will die to the last man before you claim one inch of Gondor as your own." He turned his head slightly to Nallis. "Fire it."

Nallis touched the torch he held to the rock at their feet and flames raced along the stone, catching and consuming the fuel that had been spread there. They reached the heights and spread swiftly, quickly obscuring the Haradrim from sight as Faramir stepped back, his face hard and unforgiving. "Do as you will; we will not allow you to claim one portion of our lands! Boromir!"

The gates flew open and out of the smoke and destruction sprang the Knights of Gondor, their faces fierce under their helms and their voices rough with rage. One among them stood out; Boromir, his golden head bared as always for the men to rally to. "Ride them down!" he roared as he spurred forward, his blade already meeting the enemy ranks. "No mercy!"

And the battle was joined…

* * *

Tanathel was weary to her bones, but she forced herself onward. Tesoro, too, was flagging; but the Gates of the City were in sight now and the sooner it was reached, the sooner they both could rest.

It was midafternoon on the third day of her journey, and she desperately needed rest, water, and food. She had chosen to press on, sleeping some in the saddle while Tesoro put leagues under them, slowly when he needed a rest, then picking up the pace again. Her bag of supplies had been abandoned at that first stop, where she had intended to make a camp. But the urgency of her mission had tormented her, allowing her no sleep, and the flames in the southern sky had urged her forward without much respite. Her blade, bow, and quiver had remained at a deserted farmhold she had seen along the way; she would reclaim them later. Even the thick heavy cloak she had begun the journey with had been discarded in the name of haste. All she carried with her were the clothes on her back and a small waterskin, which was now empty.

Her heart burned with the loss of the outpost. For what else could such an inferno signify? Boromir, Faramir, all the men left behind her were remembered with fondness; but it was the loss of Boromir she felt most keenly.

When she had learned to love him, she didn't know. But she had grown accustomed to having his presence near, to being able to draw support from the big oaf whenever she needed it, to knowing there was nothing she could not discuss with him, from arms to tactics to the quality of the ale at the local pubs. She was comfortable with him, more so than the other men she had been assigned with. With them, there was camaraderie, yes; but also the knowledge that she was female to their male, and it had made for a few embarrassing moments before it had been established that she was just 'one of their own.'

Boromir was different. To him, she was a soldier true, it mattered not her gender. Or at least, it hadn't mattered to him until they had kissed; then, she imagined, it had mattered very much. She grieved, but she would not weep. There wasn't time.

The Gates stood open as though in welcome and she saw the guards ready their weapons as she approached. For a moment, she wondered why; surely they would recognize her? Then she realized she would hardly appear the usual way to them. For one thing, Tesoro's coat shone burnished gold in the afternoon sun, for another she wore no armor. Her leathers had been all the protection she had retained.

She drew her laboring mount to a stop at their call, and waited to be recognized. Luck was with her; Daethlin was on Gate duty and he motioned her through quickly. "What word, Tanathel?" he asked as she drew near.

"I cannot say," she replied as she moved Tesoro forward. "I must see the King."

"You'll find him in the Hall, Tan. You'll be down at the Trumpet later? We'll catch up then."

She nodded her thanks and let her weary mount slow his pace again. He had been swift, as swift as Wind Dancer had ever been, and showed just as much heart. She patted his neck as they plodded upward, promising him warm mash and many, many apples for his endurance, and finally she was able to swing down and leave him in the care of the Stablemaster, who promised to make much of the stallion for her.

Purposefully she strode toward the Hall of Kings. Though she was beyond weary, she kept her step firm and her back straight; she would not disgrace herself or her commission by allowing her weakness to be seen.

She barged her way through to the forefront of those awaiting audiences and gave the Chamberlain a glare that would have frozen the Bay of Belfalas solid, as though daring him to impede her progress. Instead, he gave her a courtly bow and waved her inside.

She schooled her expression at the first sight of her lord, but his appearance was a shock. He had lost weight he could ill afford to lose, and there were smudges under his eyes that spoke of many nights without rest. What had happened here? Boromir had been right, something was indeed wrong. She carried herself forward to the foot of the throne and knelt there. "I bring a message, Your Highness, from the southern border."

Aragorn rose from his seat and came down the steps to her, raising her to her feet and giving her a critical glance in the process. "You're half frozen and exhausted. Gentlemen, nothing further today," he announced firmly as he took her by the arm. "Come, we'll go somewhere we can talk and you can warm up."

* * *

Aragorn listened to Tanathel's report, silently commending her on her sense of duty. She never faltered in her recitation, and her words were clear and concise, conveying none of the discomfort he knew she felt. He searched her words for signs of omission and deception and found none; though the news she brought was far from good, it could have been worse. He might not have known at all.

"I've sent a page for clean clothes for you. Into the bath, Lieutenant; you're still a little blue from cold." He caught her expression and chuckled softly. "I promise I won't look."

He watched her face as she realized he was teasing and gave him a weary smile. "Then I promise to be quick."

He allowed a small smile to emerge as he signaled his esquire. "Bring food for two, and then you are dismissed." Wine, he mused. She would sense nothing amiss. Perhaps the wine would be enough, but he doubted it. He had seen the grief in her dark eyes, grief to match his own; she would need help sleeping. He dropped a pinch of powdered bloodroot into the wine and mixed it well, setting it down quickly when he heard signs of her returning. Dalan set out the meal, bowed, and withdrew, leaving them alone again.

He greeted her and motioned that she take the seat opposite. They made a companionable meal together, though he ate little and noticed she marked the occurrence, and then he suggested perhaps some air before she returned to her quarters. She agreed and he took her out onto his balcony. He peppered her with questions about her report, her journey, why she was so certain the outpost was lost. He kept a wary eye on her face, watching for the telltale signs, and stepped forward to catch her up neatly when she folded midword.

He placed her gently into his own bed, knowing that perhaps a rumor or two would start making the rounds almost immediately, and completely unconcerned. She needed rest, and he wanted to be certain she got some. Besides, he almost never slept here himself any longer. He covered her warmly against the chill that still managed to invade his chambers and stepped back out onto the balcony.

Perhaps it was the sight of the young woman now sleeping snugly in his bed; perhaps it was the news that perhaps his two closest friends were most likely dead; perhaps it was a combination of several factors but Arwen seemed particularly close this night and the pain of her loss was a dagger to his heart. He went to his knees, his grief overwhelming him once more, tears for his lost love, for Boromir, for Faramir whom he had loved like his own son these months past came spilling down his cheeks. "No more," he whispered. "I can bear no more." He had brought death to all he loved; would Tanathel be any different? She had been a staunch friend, a loyal soldier, and as such, she would be a target for this curse he was certain had been placed upon him. He had not been able to protect Arwen, even here in his own chambers. What made him think he could protect Tanathel? He was alone, as he was always alone, as he was always meant to be alone.

He cried his grief and despair to the skies, no longer caring who might hear. He was alone, that was all he could think, he was alone again. Always alone. _"Arwen, u-awartha nin si erui!"_

His hands once more found the Evenstar at his breast and he clutched at it, his sobs no less violent for all he had muted them once more. His grief was so sharp, so bitter, that it seemed likely to tear his very spirit asunder. The shards of his broken heart would never mend; the pieces were too sharp to put back together. "_Arwen, U-awartha nin si erui,"_ he whispered again, all his strength gone. _ "Do not leave me alone here."_ Death would be a mercy for him, how had he not seen that? Not a betrayal of his love; a mercy for those he still loved. His people, his friends… they would finally have peace with his death, peace in knowing he had at last joined his beloved.

The Evenstar in his grasp warmed to his touch and he unclenched his fingers in surprise and a little alarm. The charm glowed brightly, its light somehow restored.

He could hear Arwen, hear her as though she stood next to him. "_Renech i beth i pennen? Ae ú-esteliach nad, estelio han, Estelio amen. Ónen i-Estel, Meleth- nín." _The words she had spoken to him, long ago, before the Quest, before the Ring. "_Do you remember what I told you? If you trust nothing else, trust this, trust us. I give hope, my love."_

"Arwen," he breathed. He could hear her, see the light of the bright gem he held so reverently in his hands… but he could not see her. He felt her presence all around him, like a welcoming warmth in the depths of winter. _"Arwen, tua amin!"_

"_Amin khiluva tua lle," _came the soft response. Aragorn felt a weight leave him, yet he still could not credit his ears. _ "I will help you."_

"I cannot fight this darkness, this despair," he murmured, tears still falling unheeded down his gaunt cheeks. "You are my light, my heart, my strength. I cannot bear your loss, not again. Do not ask it of me, I beg you."

"I am always with you, meleth-nin. The light of the Evenstar does not wax or wane; it is mine to give to whom I will. Like my heart." Peace crept through him, easing the pain in his heart, the turmoil in his mind. She would always be with him; could he have doubted that? Had he not known? What foul thing had placed this doubt inside him? He knew not; but he _would_ find out. He surrendered to sleep, a small smile evident and the glow of the Evenstar steady against his chest.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but the powers that be have decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly! Thanks a bunch!**

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Boromir scanned the walls as the flames died down somewhat, knowing Faramir would have his archers in place almost immediately. The Haradrim were on the run; they had fled before the onslaught of Boromir's Knights and he felt a savage joy within him at the sight. Only a few dared stand against them, and those were being systematically routed. He caught sight of his brother, firing rapidly and with great effect at those in flight, and turned his attention back to the enemy.

Manzhanesh rose up from the scrubby brush, spear in hand, shouting something in his own language as he took aim and let fly. Boromir raised his shield just a fraction too late; the missile hit with just enough force to unhorse him.

He rose quickly, fury foremost in his mind. This man had taken what was his; this fortress, his people, and his woman. It wasn't to be borne. "Are you so brave face to face, Manzhanesh?" he taunted the other man as he brought his sword into play. "Or do you prefer to attack from a distance like the coward you are?"

Manzhanesh parried the strike with his poleaxe and slashed at the Gondorian, his features contorted with rage. "You are brave as well, to hide behind the robes of a man old enough to be your father and more honorable than you could ever hope to be." Another whistling, whirling strike and he was suddenly behind Boromir, the blade of his axe scoring across Boromir's armor but not doing much real damage.

Boromir heard the grating sound and spun, his shield coming up and deflecting the blade, forcing the other man back and bringing his own blade into play, breaking the staff of the enemy's weapon and driving him to the ground. "For taking this outpost, I would have let you live," he snarled. "For killing Alajahado, as well. But for Tanathel… for what you did to _my woman, _you die." He raised his broadsword and brought it down in a savage arc.

The sounds of battle were fading as he looked around; most of the Haradrim were scattered, in full flight southward toward their home. "Fall back!" he roared. "Let them go! It is over."

One of the Knights returned his horse to him, but he was suddenly too tired to mount. His shoulder throbbed where the spear had hit, but there was no blood that he could see. Wearily he turned his gaze to the outpost and his brow furrowed in concern. Where Faramir had stood, there was emptiness; but a knot of men had formed nearby.

Somehow, he found the strength to mount.

* * *

Tanathel snuggled deeply into the warmth of the covers and sighed contentedly. She thought she'd found Paradise, it was so warm and soft and… 

…and it wasn't her bed! She came bolt upright in shock. Her message!

Memory flooded back and she groaned. She had delivered the report. She had spoken with the king, had dinner with him, and then…

Why that…that… She couldn't think of something suitably vile. Surely she hadn't been so weary as to fall asleep on him? No… surely not.

"Ah, good, you're awake." Aragorn himself stood at the foot of the great bed, and she scrambled quickly up, straightening her tunic and passing hasty fingers over her stray hair. He laughed softly. "That isn't necessary. I was starting to be concerned. You've slept for nearly two days."

"I rode for three with only one true stop," she confessed as she began to register stiffness and aches from her long trek. "The urgency of my message had been well-impressed on me," she said ruefully as she regarded him with steady eyes. "So what was in the wine? I was not so weary I could not have walked to my quarters."

He laughed in return and gestured for her to precede him into the sitting room. "A small pinch of bloodroot. As it was, I fear I used too much. But you needed rest." He stood for a moment, facing west, to observe the Standing Silence. Then he seated himself across the table from her and indicated the rather large breakfast that had been set out. "You have suffered a loss, Tanathel. I know how hard it would be for you to rest well, once it comes home to you."

Tanathel grimaced slightly. She had hoped to avoid further discussion of Boromir and the others; she had told him all she knew and was painfully aware that it wasn't enough. But there was no way they could have escaped the great burning she had seen from the trail. That it had been visible at all from such a distance made it a more than respectable blaze. It had been a pyre, upon which the Men of Gondor would have burned. "Then you will understand that I couldn't possibly manage all this food," she said, her voice thick with humor as well as sorrow.

"It just so happens I'm a bit peckish myself this morning," he replied with a sad humor of his own. They ate in companionable silence for a time until one of the pages came to the door. "Sire, a message from the Gates. Scouts report an armed column coming up from the south. No banners that can be seen as yet. They travel slowly to accommodate the wagons in their midst; but they will be here by midday."

Aragorn nodded acceptance of the message. "Tell Daethlin I will be on the wall shortly. Tanathel, muster those left in the City. The Gates will hold them; but they will regret nonetheless thinking they can murder my people and march so boldly on this City." His face was grim. "Have your troops at the Gates in an hour, Captain."

Tanathel acknowledged her new rank with a quite proper bow and left, her step purposeful. There were many things to set in place, and little time to do so. And she would not betray Aragorn's trust in her by failing.

* * *

By the first hour before midday, her troops were assembled just before the Gates, weapons and armor gleaming in the sun. Knights, Archers, and the few Rangers who had remained in the City ranged behind her, though she gave them no glance to assure they remained in ranks. They either would or would not. She had to trust these men to obey her orders, and it would start with a simple thing like this. 

A commotion on the wall caught her attention, but she did not look up. Aragorn would give them their orders soon enough. If the troops approaching were truly the enemy… and they must be… then all too soon the Gates would open and she would ride out to meet them.

Trumpets, trumpets sounding a familiar fanfare penetrated her thoughts and she forced herself to remain still, to give no sign of the fierce exultation that had gripped her; these were Gondor's own, come home alive. Dimly she heard Aragorn's strident call to open the Gate, and Wind Dancer quivered under her, caught by her growing excitement. Still she remained immobile, silent, and focused.

The Gates opened wide, and Aragorn's voice called down to them. "Captain, take your Knights and bring our men home!"

She gave a nod and motioned her riders forward, noting the easy way they fell into formation, though the move had not been practiced with her in the lead. They were good men.

Many of the returning men appeared unscathed, and for that she breathed thanks to whatever gods might listen. Still she searched for the face that would make this homecoming unforgettable.

Horses, golden horses, gleaming in the sun. The brothers rode near the center of the column, not the fore where their rank would place them. She saw one break ranks and move swiftly forward, the stallion covering the ground in an easy lope, the rider loose and comfortable in the saddle with no hint of injury. Then she was able to see the golden hair fanning out in the slight breeze and her heart soared as the trumpets finally discovered what she in her heart should have known; that Boromir and Faramir had indeed come home.

The reason for their position in the column soon became apparent. Wounded were always kept in the middle of any column, the better to defend them if necessary. Tanathel moved her men forward at a smart pace as well, to meet them and take some of the strain from the wagon drivers and wounded. Boromir met them halfway and she ordered her men on, wishing only to get the column into the safety of the City as soon as possible. Faramir looked gray in the bright light and favored his left arm considerably.

She stopped before her Captain-General and held her position, tall and proud in the saddle. "How bad?" she asked simply.

If Boromir was taken aback by her cool greeting, he hid it well. "About a third of our returning troops are wounded, though only about a score badly. The Haradrim have retreated for now." He gazed up at the wall, finding the unmistakable form of Aragorn watching. "Faramir needs to be tended as soon as possible. His arm was wounded badly and we had not the skill to do more than clean it and bind it up." His concern for his brother seemed to overshadow everything else, and Tanathel accepted it. "One or two others are bad enough we weren't sure they'd make the journey, but they still live." He held her gaze for a moment as the column moved past behind them. "You seem to have taken no harm from your journey," he said softly.

"A moment or two of thinking I would be frozen to my horse, but nothing significant," she replied stiffly. "A few moments of stark terror, when I saw the flames behind me. Then back into the saddle and off again." She shrugged, not an easy thing to do in full heavy armor. "The worst part was His Majesty deciding that I needed rest." A small smile touched her face.

Boromir moved his mount closer to her and laid one gloved hand across hers. "We must talk," he said softly.

She nodded in agreement. "When this is done," she replied quietly and moved to flank Faramir's horse as he passed, while Boromir took position on the other side. The Steward did not look at all well. The stiffness with which he held the arm spoke of damage to the joint; which was probably why the journeymen healers at the outpost hadn't tried to correct it. Delicate surgery was not yet their specialty. Battlefield surgery was often rough and consisted of making sure the wounded could travel to better facilities.

"Welcome home, my lord," she said to Faramir with as much cheer as she thought he could handle. She would not touch him, for he seemed to be in much pain; but she could and did give him an encouraging smile before excusing herself and returning to the head of the line, checking the spacing in the column, the positioning of her men to take the strain from the travelers; all the tasks that Boromir had been seeing to since they left the outpost. This was her responsibility now, and she meant to see it done properly. Even within sight of the City, there could be surprises; and these men had been through enough. She would treat them as gently as though they were deep in enemy territory and see them home safe.

**TBC**


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but has decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly at Thanks a bunch!**

**Also, I have to give a big thank you to Ithil-valon which I quite stupidly overlooked in Chapter 22. Lest anyone think my sudden knowledge of Elvish was a miracle or something; she is to credit for coming up with the Elvish phrases used in that chapter. Thanks again, girlfriend!**

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Once her duties had been completed – the wounded safely ensconced in the Houses of Healing, the supplies stored away, the horses tended, her men dismissed – Tanathel stepped into the back corridors where she wouldn't be seen and scurried to the Houses of Healing. She wanted to see Faramir and make certain he would heal whole before she even considered talking to Boromir.

Hah. Talk. What she wanted to do was throw her arms around him and just hold on; but she would let him set the tone. He was, after all, not just her commanding officer. He was the Captain-General of Gondor herself. He had far more pressing concerns on his time than one mere Ranger from Ithilien.

She pulled herself back from a near run, stayed in the shadows long enough to smooth her hair and make herself presentable, and stepped out into the corridor to make her way to join the others clustered outside Faramir's room. "Any word?" she asked quietly as she approached.

Aragorn and Boromir nodded in welcome, although Boromir's eyes held hers longer than was strictly necessary. "Not yet," Aragorn said quietly. "Calas believes there may yet be a splinter of the spear's tip in the elbow joint, which is causing the discomfort. He's lucky to still have the arm."

"Indeed." Boromir's gaze was haunted. "If it had been a direct strike, rather than a glancing one, he would have lost the arm completely," he explained. "As it is, there is some question of how much use he will have of it."

Tanathel winced. Not good news, certainly, especially for an archer. If he didn't have full mobility in the arm, he wouldn't be able to use his bow at all, regardless that it wasn't his firing arm that was affected. She placed a hand lightly on Boromir's forearm, noting as she did so that he had not yet changed from his travel gear, indeed, he looked tired and careworn.

She glanced at her King and realized that he, too, bore signs of strain. She knew she would get neither of them to leave this place until they had word of Faramir's condition; but the least she could do was make sure they ate. It was getting on in the evening.

She started to call for a page, but the door opened behind her and she turned instead. Calas stood in the doorway, wreathed in his dignity though he seemed exhausted. "The splinter has been removed," he said softly, his voice also showing his weariness. "About the use of the arm, I have no news as yet. If it heals cleanly, and he strengthens it properly, perhaps he may regain the full use of it. I cannot yet say. There was much damage done to the joint. It is just too soon to say."

Aragorn nodded and Boromir stepped forward. "May I see him?" he asked softly.

"Nay, he still sleeps from the sedative. Perhaps tomorrow. It is not so far away, my lord." Calas gave them a weary bow and departed, his step heavy, to return to his patient.

Aragorn gave Boromir a clasp on the shoulder for support. "Your brother is strong, my friend," he said firmly. "He will weather this, as he has weathered every threat to him thus far. Have faith."

Boromir bowed his head in acknowledgement of his King's words and watched as Aragorn strode away, presumably to a late dinner and perhaps some rest. He stood there, still and silent, his eyes on the door beyond which his brother rested, deep in the throes of the bittersweet herb that had been used to allow him to sleep. His green eyes were haunted with his fear for Faramir.

Tanathel again laid a gentle hand on his arm, turning him to face her, her own face reflecting her concern. Not just for Faramir, but for the man who stood before her. They were so close, the brothers; what one felt, the other invariably also experienced. She did not understand that depth of feeling for another, but she accepted it. An only child, Tanathel had not been close to any save her parents; and not as close to them as she might have liked. "You must rest, also," she said softly as she began to draw him away from this place of misery. "You have not changed, you have not eaten… if you become ill, how will that help Faramir?" She kept her voice soothing, knowing that he was feeling lost and frightened; not emotions she would normally associate with the bear of a man at her side.

She guided him along the corridor, offering him a nudge of encouragement when he faltered and supporting him as his own weariness began to show. Finally she got him into his quarters and settled him on the edge of the bed to undo the fastenings on his armor.

Boromir's hands came down atop hers as she undid the first catch and she looked up at him, startled. "I can manage. Send Corvin down for food, if you would. I know he's lurking about somewhere." He gave her a slight smile. "He's never far from you when you are in the City. He adores you."

"I certainly don't know why," she stated as she stepped back from him. He was getting himself under control; that was an excellent sign. On the other hand, Boromir in control of himself was a daunting prospect. It meant she had to be prepared to talk about what had happened on the border. "I work him hard. And not half as hard as I'll work him once he gets a little more growth on him. He wants to be an archer."

"And so he shall. He has the dedication for it." This was not at all the discussion he had meant to have with her, but perhaps it was better this way. His mind was more than occupied with his brother's condition; Faramir would be devastated if he lost the use of the arm. No, he must face this. She deserved no less. "Food first. Then we must talk, you and I, and not of your would-be archer." A small smile gave softness to the stern words.

Tanathel turned away and did as requested, a flush creeping over her cheeks. Boromir had been correct; she caught Corvin just mounting the steps and sent him for whatever was still in the pot from supper. Then, when he returned with a heavily laden tray, she dismissed him, grateful for the additional time to get her wayward expression under control. It wouldn't do to let Boromir see her discomfiture. She hoped he had had enough time to get himself composed as well.

Boromir had cleared a space on one of the map tables and she set the tray down, grateful to let the weight rest on something other than her own hands. She wondered how Corvin had managed it by himself; there was a _lot_ of food there. He would make a fine archer with that kind of strength in him.

Tanathel had managed to remove her own armor in the corridor. It had been a trial, but she was used to doing for herself, and the beastly stuff was beginning to make her very bones ache. Not that she would ever complain, but it was a relief to have it off. Just the same, the look she caught in Boromir's eyes made her wish she had waited. The extra protection would have been welcome.

She had seen that look before, of course, but never directed at her. Not even the men she worked closely with had been so aware of her as a female. There had been the occasional embarrassing moment, but she had never seen such an expression of… not desire, perhaps, but close. She fought to still the sudden tremble in her fingers and they observed the Standing Silence, then sat down opposite each other and began to eat.

They chatted amiably over the meal, not really discussing anything in particular but comfortable in each other's company, a feat Tanathel had been certain would never happen again, at least not until she had a few tankards of ale in her first. Then Boromir moved back and rose, gesturing for her to follow him out to the balcony. She took up a position next to him at the railing, looking out over the White City. Below them, lights twinkled invitingly, giving the landscape a welcoming air.

Boromir shifted, leaning forward slightly to rest his arms along the balustrade, watching her from the corner of his eye. She seemed in awe of the view and he reminded himself firmly that she probably had never seen the City from this height, unless she had seen it from Aragorn's balcony. No, the angle would have been wrong, he decided as he strangled a totally unjustified burst of jealousy at the thought. "Beautiful, isn't it?" he murmured.

Gods above and below, she was as beautiful to him as his City, long the only love in his heart. Her hair shone in the starlight, though he knew it had been confined under her helm most of the day. It hung in its usual braid, smooth and glossy to just below her waist. Unthinking, he reached out to touch one dark curl that had escaped, twisting it idly in his fingers as she turned to him in surprise. Her eyes, normally so dark, seemed almost black to him in the twilight, the corners slightly up-tilted and giving her an exotic air. He drew himself in abruptly and stepped back, fighting for composure. "Forgive me, Tanathel, I did not mean ---"

"No forgiveness is necessary," she replied, her own voice soft and steady. "Unless you regret it." The words were spoken before she could censor them. Good enough; this needed to be dealt with, for good and all. What had flared between them at the border was still there, unresolved and unquiet. If left unresolved, it could get either of them killed. Or both. And she knew he also understood the risks; he was a consummate tactician, an excellent commander; yes, he knew the risks.

"Regret? No, no regrets." He brushed her cheek with his fingertips and she closed her eyes against the caress. "I am not a man of words, Tana," he said softly as he drew her forward. "No doubt another man would give you poetry, send love letters; and if that is what you wish, then I will try."

"No other man could give me those things, because I would not accept them," she said firmly as she rested a hand on his chest. "I've no need for poetry or love letters. Fancy words, flowery phrases, they say nothing of value and mean even less. Simple words spoken from the heart would mean more to me than all the poetry in Arda. And words spoken from _your_ heart would be dearer than all the treasure ever found." She kissed him lightly on the cheek, wondering at her new-found courage.

He held her close to him, drinking in her nearness, feeling a sudden wave of tenderness overtake him such as he had never experienced. This woman had touched him in ways he had never imagined possible, ways he had sworn would be forever beyond him. He had never looked for more than the occasional companionship of the tavern wenches, more than content to give his heart to his City and never ask for more. Tanathel had changed all of that.

No longer was he content to serve Gondor and return to an empty set of rooms. No, he wanted her with him always. He missed her acutely when she wasn't with him, admired her quick wit, her determination, her strength, her loyalty, her beauty… all the things that made her unique. And yet, those very traits would make for some rough moments. He mustn't coddle her or try to protect her; she was a strong woman. And duty would ever command them both.

Gently he tipped her face to his and kissed her soundly, holding her tightly to him and feeling the ragged edges of his restraint fray even further. Reluctantly he set her back a pace. "We must do this properly," he murmured. "I would not have it said that you were rushed or forced into marriage. I warn you, though," with a grin twisting his lips, "I intend to be most thorough in my courtship." He sighed heavily. "There are things I must attend to on the morrow, as soon as I have seen Faramir. I must go to Fornon, in Lossarnach." His promise to Aron was foremost in his mind.

Tanathel nodded, though she missed the closeness they seemed to have found. He was resolutely putting himself back into command persona, she could see it clearly, and wondered at the change. She would not ask; it was for him to explain or not, as he chose. "And I have duties as well. Safe journey, my heart," she whispered as she pressed another kiss to his lips, and like a quicksilver flame, she was gone to her own rest.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but has decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly at Thanks a bunch!**

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Tanathel woke to a subdued knock on her door. "Come," she called softly, mindful of the early hour. She sat up in her bed, running weary fingers through her unbound hair and squinting through the light of the lamp her visitor held.

She instantly came to her feet, adjusting her tunic hastily before kneeling quite properly. "Forgive me, Sire, I had not known…"

Aragorn drew her to her feet quickly as he snaked out one foot and kicked the door closed. "Not at all a proper visit, Captain, so you need not kneel," he said quietly, though the force of the words remained with her. "I know it is late, and that you have need of your rest, but I have a duty for you, one that I do not wish to become public knowledge."

Once more he seemed haggard and drawn, not at all the man who had greeted her on her awakening the day before. She was swiftly putting herself together, binding her hair, slipping her mail over her tunic, drawing on her boots; his urgency was conveying itself to her quite well without further speech. "What would you have of me, my lord?" she asked quietly as she faced him again.

The change in him went deeper than she had initially assessed; his face was drawn and pale, as though he battled with some inner demon, and his hair lay lank against his head with perspiration. And the Evenstar lay yet against his chest, but now the stone glittered with new life, and she felt herself gaping at it. She had thought the metal dull and tarnished with the passing of the Queen; what lay before her eyes now was the true splendor of the stone, such as she had never seen.

"Something dark lies within the Citadel, my friend," he replied quietly as he settled himself on her one chair. "I need your help to flush it out."

Tanathel nodded quickly, put on her guard by his words. "Of course, my lord, whatever you ask. But---"

"You wonder at the change in the Evenstar? It is all part of the same design, my friend, and I will tell you the whole of it before we begin." Aragorn paused as though collecting his thoughts. Then he began the tale, sparing himself nothing in the telling, giving her the accounts of his grief, his sleepless nights, his thoughts of suicide, and his belief that some outside force was attempting to drive him into madness or death. "But it is clear, whatever else may happen, that this adversary wields great power," he said softly as he passed a weary hand over his eyes. "Else Arwen would not have felt the need to aid me as she has."

"My lord," Tanathel began slowly, feeling her way cautiously. "I don't understand. How can the Queen be helping you now?" Caution was discarded quickly at the light in his eyes. She had to know if her King had indeed been driven mad by his grief.

Aragorn touched the Evenstar lightly and there was no mistaking the momentary brightening of its light. "Shades may linger when their need is great," he murmured.

Thoughts and memories began to crowd Tanathel's mind. The Army of the Dead. Boromir's miraculous return. Her knowledge, shared with Boromir, that something had gone wrong at the outpost before they were even a day's ride from the City. Faramir's visions. She dismissed her doubts firmly in the face of such evidence and returned her steady gaze to meet his. "What are your orders, Sire?"

Faramir was adrift in the darkness, the pain in his arm forgotten as he moved slowly toward some elusive destination. He recognized none of his surroundings; the darkness was total. Then light flared in the blackness and he turned toward it.

Again he regarded the image of his brother in state. This time, he saw more details, though it was still incomprehensible to him. The Haradrim had all but sworn a blood war against Boromir. Why now would they mourn his loss? Yet what seemed an endless tide of them flowed past the bier, each one leaving a token of affection, the pale desert flowers they favored. The floor was blanketed with them, the pale pink of the petals still fresh. And Boromir seemed older, not frail, but definitely past his prime. What was this telling him? That peace with the Haradrim was possible, and his brother would be the key? What was he to think of this?

A cool cloth was placed against his forehead and he woke abruptly, steadying when he realized Eowyn had come to tend him. She had been weeping and the vision was quickly pushed aside in favor of reassuring his wife. He raised his right hand to touch her cheek. "You mustn't weep, Wyn," he murmured, his voice thick from the drug. "I yet live, and the outlook is not so grim."

"Yet so close you came to death, and I would not have known until it was far too late," she whispered as she held his hand against her face, nuzzling it softly. "T'would seem my fate is to always remain behind while others risk their lives in our defense. Truly, I thought the messenger was bringing me news of your death." She regarded him seriously, the gravity of her words belied by her soft smile. "Do not distress me so again, husband, please." There was a brittle light in her eyes that he didn't care much for; it reminded him far too vividly of the despair she had been suffering when they first met.

He ached to hold her, and yet he was too weak to rise from his pallet. "I will promise to try, Eowyn, but ever duty will call me away. As it has you, on occasion." He kept his voice gentle, though he meant to also chide her slightly. "What of the children? Are they well?"

"Elboron is going to be the death of me, as you well know," Eowyn replied softly, laughter running through the words. "This time, he has brought home a puppy, although it promises to become one of the largest hounds I have ever seen! But unless you are there to make the final decision, there is no stopping him, and well you know it. And this time, I believe he had no choice; such a tender heart could not have withstood the agonies of the beast." Eowyn's face turned hard for a moment. "Justice has been served, however. The mongrel's former keeper has been turned out. I will have no one on our lands who will treat animals so cruelly."

Faramir, who had also been accused of a tender heart where animals were concerned, let a frown crease his brow for a moment. "What exactly ailed the animal, and who is now adrift and landless?" he asked sharply. "And the twins, what of them? What mischief have _they_ been up to? I know you too well, Wyn, and when you start with Elboron, it is often to conceal some prank the girls have perpetrated." His eyes were dancing with suppressed mirth; neither one of them had been a very harsh taskmaster with any of the children. However, the mischief managed had been well within the bounds of common sense to this date, causing no harm to others or their property.

"Lian of Hellengate, and his lands now revert to your control, my lord," Eowyn stated flatly as she regarded him with some suspicion. "Are you certain you are not feverish? Let me see." She laid a hand against his forehead and he brushed it off impatiently with a small laugh.

"None of that, if you please," he shot back smoothly, her fingers now trapped within his own. "The truth, Eowyn, and right now. What have they done this time?"

Eowyn sighed. "I should know better than to try this with you," she said, appearing dejected. "Very well. In the order you requested: the hound, whom Elboron has named Quelmarth, by the way, was suffering greatly under his former master's care. He was underfed, so bony he appeared to have nothing to him but hide stretched over a too large set of bones, and had been whipped most brutally in the bargain. Many of the welts were infected by the time our son found him." She took a deep breath; the distress of the animal had clearly distressed her, as well. "He may yet live, however. Elboron has been devoted to his nursing of the brute. And I took Lian to task over it, and that was that. He stated he would rather live a free man than live where he could not discipline his hounds as he saw fit and left the Keep. No one has seen him since. And the twins have taken up war play in their spare time, though it's fists they fight with and I've taken care to keep the weapons blunted. They have decided they are to be Shieldmaidens like their mother. And they are actually quite good at fighting, neither of them will give an inch to the other until they are both so weary they can't stand. Stubborn, willful… I have no idea where they could possibly have come by those traits." She quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

Faramir chuckled softly, his mind conjuring the image of his little darlings engaged in battle. "At least they're doing no harm to others with their practice," he said firmly when he had regained control. "As for stubborn, I imagine they received a healthy dose of mulish behavior from the both of us." He would have added more, but his injury took that moment to remind him most forcefully of its existence and he drew a hissing breath between his teeth.

Eowyn immediately rose and motioned for a page, sending him for Calas. "Rest now, love, we will have you to rights soon," she crooned as she returned to Faramir and stroked his hair. "It will pass. Think of the girls and the little wooden swords I am certain you will want to give them."

"Not for a few years yet," Faramir gasped. Eowyn's hands were cool and soothing, but they couldn't ease the pain enough.

Calas settled next to him, examining the arm with practiced ease, lines of weariness creasing his face as he took in the swollen joint. "Some pain is to be expected, unfortunately," he said slowly. "I will prepare a potion for you to use when it is severe. The swelling should recede within a day or two, and then we will better be able to judge the extent of the damage."

Eowyn nodded her understanding, her hands still busy trying to soothe her husband's pain. She had some experience in healing, but nothing that would help her with this devastating wound. So she listened carefully to Calas' instructions and promised to summon him at the first sign of anything amiss and kept watch over Faramir as he drifted back into slumber, aided by the drug.

Boromir rode into Lossarnach just before midday, his heart heavy at the message he must give. Of all his duties as Captain-General, this was surely the one he disliked most, bearing tidings of the fallen to their families.

He had delegated others to carry the news of the dead to the families in the City, but this one, this one he would deliver personally. He had given his word to do so. Even so, he had not neglected to check upon his wounded brother; Faramir was still deep in the throes of his drugged sleep when Boromir had departed the City.

The arrival of the Captain-General had not gone unnoticed; people crowded in close, all wanting a chance to greet Boromir or perhaps simply touch his horse. Ohtar took the crowd in stride; the big warhorse was used to noise and commotion and would not harm anyone without a direct command from his rider.

Boromir inquired of the first person he could collar where he might find Fornon and was directed up to the smithy. With a smile and a wave for the gathered throng, he moved Ohtar out smartly, covering the distance quickly and swinging down, taking a moment to compose himself before entering the forge.

"Here, now, you shouldn't be in here, sir," a man's voice sounded from behind the anvil where he worked. "Such as you should come in through the shop. Teela'll be more'n happy to display our blades." He came out from behind the anvil, his leather apron well-used, though also well-kept, and his face seamed with his years. Strength still radiated from his frame, though, and a sense that he had weathered more than most. Boromir watched as comprehension flashed through his dark eyes and his face fell. "Like that, is it, my lord?" he said softly. "Well, come inside then. My Teela will fetch us something cool to drink."

Fornon led the way from his forge into their small dwelling, negligently waving Boromir to a seat in a comfortable armchair near the fire. "Been so long in the forge, I'm used to the heat. Keep that going even in the height of summer, now. But I'm sure you'll be glad of it today. Bit nippy still, though spring isn't that far off."

Boromir nodded his thanks as Teela moved forward from the back with cool water in spotlessly clean cups. His estimation of these people rose a notch; for though cleanliness was encouraged, it wasn't always widely practiced. He took an appreciative sip, needing the time to compose himself once more.

He took in the stricken look on Teela's face, the resignation on Fornon's, and decided he could wait no longer. No sense drawing out the agony of what they already suspected. "Your Aron fought bravely," he said slowly. "He helped hold the line with the archers against the _mumakil. _He was valiant, and held till the last. He was not afraid of death; only that you would not hear of his bravery. His last words to me were of you. I only wish I had more to offer you than words of comfort, and his possessions; he deserved so much more."

Teela smothered a sob with one hand and fled to the back of the small home, where she wept for her lost son. Boromir gave her credit that she attempted to keep her weeping quiet so the men could talk; but he ached to be the one to cause such pain. He turned his eyes to Fornon when the old man began to speak.

"Words are all you can offer when times are so unsettled, my lord. Rest easy; his death was neither unexpected nor unappreciated. He was always a brave lad; he used to defend the girls of our village from all comers. Ah, he was a handsome lad." He gave Boromir a direct gaze, his dark eyes clear, though they glistened with unshed tears. "He was a good son, he was, and I'm grateful to hear he carried that into his soldiering. Means he took his lessons to heart." He rose from his perch on the hearth and took Boromir's hand. "You're a good man, a good commander, my lord, to take time to bring us word personally. Aron always liked serving with you. I'm glad he was with you when it happened. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd best tend to my wife." He nodded and withdrew, leaving Boromir to find his way out. Not discourteous in the least, not to Boromir's mind; they must be nearly mad with grief.

Aron had been well-loved in this home, of that Boromir was certain. And he would be well and truly missed.

Suddenly he needed to see Tanathel, even more than he needed to see Faramir. He needed her closeness, needed her comfort after this harrowing day. His heart was bleeding, and only she could mend it. He waited only until they were a proper distance from the gates and kicked Ohtar into a run.


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but has decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly at Thanks a bunch!**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

Tanathel had hand-picked the men she would use in her search. All were more than familiar with the Citadel; all were good men and true. She faced them squarely, giving no sign of her own thoughts. "This must be undertaken with great secrecy," she began firmly. "Tell no one what you are about. If you are questioned, you are merely wandering. No one must know that we have mounted this search. I have no intention of losing our quarry through a careless whisper. You are seeking signs of darkness within the Citadel; it would be foolish to allow it to know it was being hunted. We must not give this darkness, man or otherwise, the chance to conceal itself once more.

"Look for signs of spellcraft, of wizardry. Do nothing when you find it; come to me in the King's apartments and report. Do nothing else. Take no unnecessary risks. This is a mission for stealth." When she was positive they understood, she dismissed them, each to his own area of the Citadel and beneath the city itself. One man lingered, and she arched an eyebrow in his direction. "What is it, Mauhar?" she asked firmly. Was he apprehensive about what she was ordering him to do?

"You will be in the King's apartments, Captain?" His eyes were hooded and she could get no hint of his thoughts from his face.

"Is it my reputation you are concerned with, my friend, or his?" she replied with a smile. Abruptly she sobered. "Oh, bollocks, Mauhar, it is for his safety! Nothing more."

"It isn't your reputation that concerns me." Mauhar kept his voice soft. "If he has been enchanted, how will you tell? How will you help him? And don't glare at me." He faced her squarely, his jaw set, and Tanathel subsided to allow him his say. "I know how well you fight. I've seen you, I helped train you at Henneth Annun. How could you help him?"

She felt her own teeth clench, but could find no fault with his argument. She was no sorceress; and a good captain would listen to her men and if she was able, calm their unease. "I do not know what he expects of me yet," she said honestly, meeting his eyes with her own. "I do know that his despair grows deeper with every moment that he is alone, that it is taking a toll on his health, on his very spirit. He does not sleep, he barely eats; if my presence can forestall another attack, then I am glad to do so."

Mauhar nodded crisply. "Then I will let you get on with it," he replied as he gripped her shoulder for a moment. "I will keep track of the others; if anything is found, you will know immediately. But be on your guard; I would hate to have to inform Lord Boromir that I allowed you to come to harm." He strode away, leaving her red-faced with embarrassment. After a moment, she gathered her wits together and left the guardroom.

Aragorn stood on his balcony, watching the setting sun with something akin to alarm. His grief, always so near, seemed to take on a life of its own when darkness shrouded the world. It tore at him, never waiting until the previous night's wounds had healed to open them anew and add more. His spirit was raw and bleeding, and he feared for his sanity should this continue much longer.

He heard the fanfare that signaled Boromir's return to the City and welcomed it. Then he chided himself for foolishness; there was no threat to his friend between Lossarnach and Minas Tirith. Would he never be able to stop searching the shadows for enemies?

A rap at his chamber door caught his attention and thankfully halted that train of thought. It couldn't be Dalan; he had dismissed the man for the remainder of the evening, and nor could it be Boromir for he had only just ridden through the Gates. Tanathel, then. He called out in welcome.

She stepped in and knelt. "Good evening, Sire," she said pleasantly as he drew her up. "What would my duties be this evening?"

"Perhaps nothing," he responded kindly. "If I have judged these... attacks... correctly, then nothing should occur much before the watch changes. However, that is not guaranteed." He gestured for her to make herself comfortable.

Tanathel settled onto an overstuffed chair with a muted sigh of contentment. It wasn't often she found such comfort; pampering herself was not one of her vices.

She gave her King an appraising look. He appeared worn, haggard; the lines in his face even deeper than when he had come to her in the darkness before dawn. "What are your orders, then, my lord?" she asked cautiously. The full weight of Mauhar's warning settled on her and she rigidly controlled her features. Her King would have no cause to doubt her ability to protect him, though she harbored a few doubts of her own. She would not be much use against wizardry.

Aragorn gave her a small smile, though the grief in his eyes struck a blow to her heart. How could anyone survive such pain? It fairly pulsed at her from where he stood across the room from her, and she again schooled her expression to give nothing away.

"The grief of her death is still fresh, as fresh as though it were mere _hours_ from her death, not these months I have put behind me," he said softly. "I still feel her presence here, almost near enough to touch. I hear her voice; and yet I take comfort from the fact that she speaks to me through the Evenstar. She places no guilt upon me; yet I have placed much upon myself for her death." He took a deep breath, turning away from her to return to his place on the balcony. With a sigh, Tanathel followed him and took up a position to his right, near enough to lend support yet not near enough to crowd him.

Tanathel kept her own voice soft. "Grief is measured differently by everyone, Aragorn," she murmured. She had felt the subtle change in their discussion, from leader to subordinate to a conversation between friends and she welcomed it. "No one knows how long it will last, nor what form it will take. To some, it gives a touch of madness for a time, until they make peace with it; to others, it is merely a sense of loss. Why do you feel this is an attack?"

Aragorn slowly turned his gaze from the city and she recoiled slightly from the intensity of his regard. "Because I am no Elf," he said simply. "I was raised by them, I understand them; and I know how horrified Arwen would be should I actively seek death. Yet still I seem to be fading from the grief; the despair is overwhelming, and more so each day. I do not eat, I barely take enough water to survive. I cannot think, I cannot act; my very will seems separate from my body and yet both yearn to join her. And yet there is a chill about this despair, a feeling of _difference_ that I cannot explain."

"And whose decision is it for you to waste away?" Tanathel snapped, her eyes flashing at him in the darkness. "You have told me that something outward is affecting your guilt, making it stronger, driving you to despair. Will you allow that something, that _someone_, to take the joy you felt in her presence, in your children's lives, and twist it to nothingness? Would you disgrace their memories in such a way?" She gestured to the Evenstar. "Would you have such a gift as _this_ lose all meaning because you were too weak to fight against this evil that threatens you?" She stopped for breath, horrified at what she was saying to her King, but would not stop. "If you would, then you are a fool."

Aragorn made no sound. She continued grimly, unable to control her wayward tongue, no longer caring that this man was her King and due her respect. "A fool, and worse, a _weak _fool. If this is all you are, then I will _never _understand why Arwen gave up the immortality of the Elves to remain with you. She clearly came out the poorer in the bargain. You are nothing but the wretched, ragged Dunedain you have oft been accused of being. Tell me, _Sire, _all those years of hiding, of lurking in the shadows in the North, of avoiding your destiny, were they truly in hiding from Sauron? Or were you simply hiding from yourself?"

She clamped her mouth shut quickly, but it was far too late. Aragorn's expression was hooded, indecipherable. He took one step toward her in the darkness and she forced herself to remain still as she felt the fury radiating from him in waves. Then Aragorn seemed to come to himself for a moment, but the glare he turned on her was so full of fury that she fought not to recoil from it. "For your insults to me, I could forgive you. But to insult your Queen's honor as you have done is unforgivable. You are to remove yourself from Minas Tirith by dawn," he rasped. "You shall have little to pack. I will allow your horses and those personal belongings which do not relate to your service here. If you are found in the City after tomorrow's dawn, you will be imprisoned. Now get out."

**TBC**


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but has decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly at Thanks a bunch!**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Tanathel forced her expression to be composed as she went about saddling Wind Dancer and getting the leading rein on Tesoro. She would not leave the stallion in the City; he was hers by right.

Possible destinations crowded her mind and she forced herself to think clearly through the shock. Her mother... no, that wouldn't do. Her mother would weep, wail, and in general wonder where she had gone wrong with such a wayward, headstrong child. And she couldn't very well go to Boromir, since he must remain in the City and she could not. Where to go? Somewhere she could count on the horses being well-kept and tended.

Not Rohan, though that would be the obvious choice. No, Rohan was too far away for what she was even now planning. She knew she was risking imprisonment at the very least; but if her King could not protect himself, she would be there to do it. She would just have to keep herself very well hidden.

Where to take the horses? The problem was a knotty one, and she was running out of time. Abruptly she spun, hand on her dagger. "Corvin, you shouldn't sneak up on people," she said firmly.

"You can take the horses to my family's home, if you like," he said softly as he began to help her check the packing. "They've always had horses, and would treat them well. They'd even let you stay if you want." The boy was clearly upset, but whether from anger or sorrow she couldn't tell. "Tanathel, what could you have done to make the King so angry? I thought he was your friend."

"He is my friend, Corvin. But he is also my King, and I should not have spoken so to him, no matter the provocation. The fault is mine, not his." And she had every intention of making things right. The pieces of this puzzle were starting to fit together in her mind, and she was quite disturbed at the emerging picture. _How_ had she allowed herself to insult them so? Granted, her temper was hot, but she usually had no difficulty controlling it. It was her _lack _of control that appalled her now. "Will you take me to your family?"

Corvin shook his head and gave a low whistle. A younger boy came out of the shadows and Corvin nodded to him. "I've the duty tonight, but Declan will. He's my brother." He gave her an impulsive hug and took off, leaving her and Declan alone.

Declan grinned up at her, his missing front teeth giving him an endearing appearance. "Cor says you're good people, miss, so we'll help. Let's get you to the farm so you can get settled." He took Tesoro's lead and began to walk, and Tanathel was astonished at the ease with which the slight boy managed the stallion. Tesoro was no tame mount; yet he followed Declan as meekly as if he'd been a child's pony.

The sight reassured her and stiffened her resolve. "Declan," she said softly as she added Wind Dancer's reins to his hands. "I need to be in the city. I need to find the one who is causing the King all this pain. It will be dangerous for me, and you're to have no part of that danger. If anyone asks, you took my horses home for me and I was to follow later. Can you do that for me? I will not ask you to lie for me; if you are asked outright if I remained in the City, you must tell the truth. Do you understand?"

He nodded agreement. "But you'll need help. You'll have to have food, and water. I can bring it to you if you want. Nobody pays much attention to me, I'm still too little to count."

"You're never too little," she reassured him. "I'll find food and water, never fear. For now, all I need from you is to tend my horses. When this is over, I will give you three gold pieces if their care has been good. Is that fair?"

The boy nodded and she spat on her palm, holding it out to him. He did the same and they sealed the bargain. "Now then, take them home and if anyone asks, tell the truth. I told you I would be there before dawn."

He nodded again and set off down the streets toward the gate, both horses docile and obedient. Tanathel spared a moment more to marvel over the sight and then ducked back into the stable. The entrance to the tunnels was close; if she could just get through it unseen...

She darted through the doorway and pulled it closed behind her, making quick work of lighting the torch that had been left nearby. This was going to be difficult; the tunnels were no longer uninhabited. Many of Gimli's fellows had remained in Minas Tirith; she would have to avoid them as well as everyone else. Her own troops included.

Her troops. No longer were they hers; she had been stripped of rank and privilege and sent into what amounted to exile. It mattered not that she had only been sent from the city and not Gondor herself. She was an exile.

That was all well and good. But her King had need of her; and she was starting to understand just what was happening. The Aragorn she knew so well would never have passed such a sentence upon her for mere words. Something in those words was the key to this. She just had to find it.

Quickly she doused the torch; she had heard the voices coming nearer. She faded backward into a dark niche to listen.

"I don't understand it," Mauhar was saying quietly. "It isn't like the King to exile someone for insulting him. Granted, he did it to Cirin, but there was more to it than just insults. I just don't understand it."

"We're not meant to understand, Mauhar," Daethlin explained patiently. "We just do what we're told. And until I get orders to the contrary, I'm still going to search down here. Something is wrong and we need to find it."

Good. Her men (she could not stop thinking of them as such) were taking their responsibilities to heart. If anyone could find the spot of darkness that dared to invade Minas Tirith, they would. But she would continue to search on her own, as well.

Despair washed over her. Even if she found what they were seeking, she had no way to report. If she was seen, she would be taken into custody immediately and after their shouting match, she doubted Aragorn would wish to listen to anything she had to say.

Her feeling of hopelessness doubled, then doubled again. She almost cried out from the force of it before she was able to control the response. Aragorn, too, had suffered from this despair, this chilling knowledge that all was coming to ruin, that there was no hope left. But what was causing it?

Despair. Eowyn, too, had suffered from despair, until Aragorn had drawn her back from that deadly path. Aragorn's despair threatened to take his life. Her own despair was threatening to take her very sanity.

Threatening? She must have lost her mind to have remained in the City. Aragorn had shown enough goodwill to allow her time to leave; he had not exiled her from Gondor herself; why had she not taken the offered compromise and left?

Her heart offered her the answer that her mind could not. There was a threat to her King, her _friend, _and she would deal with it accordingly. No matter the consequences to herself. The answer was close, so close... yet she could not see it.

She moved off down the tunnel, taking care not to be seen.

* * *

Aragorn struggled once more against the despair that seemed determined to control him. What had possessed him to so punish Tanathel for speaking the truth? The voice that had delivered her sentence had been his own, but the words were not. Yes, he was furious with her for daring to insult Arwen in such a fashion, but not so enraged that he had failed to see the truth in her words.

He had been shocked, yes, but that had certainly been her intent. And the shock had helped him to focus for a moment, until _something_ had overwhelmed him and taken control. Some_one. _He was no longer in control of himself, of his emotions, of his actions.

He could hear Arwen's gentle tones in the back of his mind, hear her offering encouragement and support, offering strength to fight this evil. It was no longer enough. Despair and grief washed over him once more, tearing at his heart, his mind, his very body. Yet he understood now, understood that this grief was not his own, it was being forced upon him by another. He grieved for Arwen, yes, he missed her with every fiber of his being, and yet he had accepted her loss. She was not truly gone from him. Her spirit lingered to give him strength.

Step by step, he fought this unseen menace, and yet he was unable to keep himself from moving ever forward. Something else touched his senses and he fought all the more; someone was following him. Would they be of assistance or were they part of this dark design? He did not know, and the uncertainty added to his frustration.

And yet, a small spark of hope grew that this unseen follower could be of help to him, even as Arwen's words grew in strength and power; but still his feet moved forward and he could not resist the compulsion. It carried him on, to whatever this dark enemy intended...

* * *

Boromir caught himself just before he could slam the door to his apartments. Damn the woman, how could she have gotten into so much trouble in the short amount of time he'd been out of the City? It defied belief.

His anger at the both of them had done a fair job of dispelling the sorrow his journey had caused; but it was certainly not his preferred method of working through it. He had expected to come home to his apartment, change, and find Tanathel to share his grief with; and instead the bloody wench had managed to get herself banished from the City! And what was more, the reasoning behind it was questionable, at least if the accounts he was hearing were correct. Aragorn might fly off in a fury if Arwen were insulted, indeed, he _had,_ but never before had that been a crime punishable by exile.

Enough of this. He would get the story from the horse's mouth, so to speak. A visit to his King was in order, both to report back and to get to the bottom of this mysterious fit of temper.

It took little enough time to make his way to the King's Apartments. He waited only a moment before rapping firmly upon the panel to announce his presence, idly noting that there was not even a page on duty. The thought gave him pause and he waited only a moment before opening the door a crack to listen for sounds of life.

The silence was deafening. He inched his way further in, his unease rapidly escalating toward anxiety. There should be some indication that his King was in residence; it was late. "Aragorn?" he called loudly. Where could the man be?

A swift yet thorough search of the area failed to reveal Aragorn's hiding place and now Boromir was genuinely concerned. How, and more importantly, _why _had Aragorn chosen to disappear? If he had gone of his own free will.

Quickly he summoned those men he knew he could trust, though few of those were to be found, either. Had the whole Citadel taken leave of their senses? What was happening?

He issued orders for a discreet search in all the usual places, and a few not-so-usual ones. What had happened? Was it connected somehow to Tanathel's banishment?

He would find no answers here. Tanathel had been given a mission prior to her exile. He would start there, with her men. And if he was lucky, he would find her and get the truth of the matter from her directly.

He hadn't far to go before he encountered Mauhar and Daethlin, both hurrying toward him with concern writ large on their faces. "Sir, we were to report to the Captain, but... you need to see this." They led him to a small room nearby, on the same level as the King's apartments, and yet so apparently unused that it had been overlooked.

The doors were ajar, and the room was darkened, yet a single candle burned near the balcony and several more upon the ledge. Black candles they were, and the flames burned low, as though they themselves wished to be unseen. "We saw them from below, sir, that's how we knew what we were looking for was up here. Nobody uses these apartments. And we found these, too." Mauhar led Boromir to a small table near the back wall.

Upon it rested a mirror, and a large, flat bowl of inky liquid. "Captain told us to find signs of spellcraft," Daethlin explained as he gave everything a fearful look. "The candles, the bowl, the mirror... they all speak of dark wizardry to me. And look here." He gestured to a saucer at the very edge of the table, poised as if to fall. Residing within was a link from a fine mithril chain, of the sort that held the Evenstar about the King's neck, and a tiny bit of a familiar fur-lined cloak.

A gasp from the window drew his attention and he went quickly to see what had drawn Mauhar's attention. A cry of mingled rage and horror tore from his throat at the sight; his friend, his brother, his King stood in the highest window of the Tower of Ecthelion, both feet upon the sill.

**TBC**


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but has decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly at Thanks a bunch!**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

Boromir was snapping orders on the fly. "Daethlin, call out the Guard! I want _every _exit from this city covered. No one leaves until I give the order. Mauhar, destroy this evil and gather your troop. Do a house to house search if you must, but Gríma must be found. And you must take him alive at all costs." The Worm couldn't have slithered back into the Citadel unseen, could he? When this was over, for good or ill, there must be an inquiry. Someone had helped Wormtongue; but that was for later.

He threw himself down the stairway, headed for the Tower. Would he be in time? He _must_ be!

* * *

Aragorn stood upon the sill, looking down from the Tower of Ecthelion and though he appeared motionless and composed, his mind was furiously struggling against this evil, this darkness that would make an end of him. Arwen's voice still spoke to him through the Evenstar and he clung to it, desperately needing the strength she offered him to keep from simply stepping out into the formless night below his feet.

And what of his unseen follower? Did they mean him good or ill? He felt his foot slide forward an inch and he fought to draw it back, winning the battle for the moment though it took every ounce of his will to do so.

"Why do you resist this, Aragorn?" a voice spoke in the darkness of the Tower room. "Why do you seek to delay your return to your beloved? Surely you wish to see her again, to hold her, to be with her in flesh as well as spirit."

A flash of light in his mind helped him to remember the voice, and his foot slid back another inch as Arwen continued to weave her protections about him. Gríma! "Never would Arwen wish such a fate upon me," he snarled in reply. "My life is a gift from her. She fought and died that I might live, that I might walk upon Arda for my intended days. _Never _would she seek to end it as you have done." Inside, he questioned. How had Gríma become so powerful? Through his association with Saruman? Possible; and he must have had some strong power in the beginning to have so opened Théoden to Saruman's possession before the Ring War.

He felt himself losing his battle for control and still struggled. Abruptly he steadied somewhat; the pull of the abyss beneath his feet lessened and he turned, intending to drop into the room and move away from the window. There were voices below, approaching.

Gríma howled in fury at the interruption and the Black Speech began to pour from his lips, once more controlling Aragorn's movements and one foot slipped over the edge behind, putting the King off balance. "They have found my things, curse them!" Gríma raged as he moved closer. "But they still will not save you, Dunedain!"

A dagger hilt struck Gríma high upon one temple and he fell forward, one arm managing to find enough strength to give the King a final push. Aragorn tumbled backward, his fingers managing to grip the sill of the window and cling there.

Strong, tanned hands grasped his forearms. "I have you!" Tanathel cried, her voice harsh with strain. "Hold on!"

She braced herself against the window ledge, trying to take some of the strain from her arms; Aragorn was not a slight man, and the weight was slowly, inexorably moving them both forward toward certain death. She felt them slipping and pushed harder with her feet, desperate to keep both of them from falling.

Gríma snarled behind her but she spared no attention for his threats. She was weakening; but she would not, _could not_ allow her King to fall! Then there were other voices in the room and strong arms came around her waist, bracing her and drawing them back, over the ledge, into the room, back toward life.

Boromir allowed his arms to drop away as soon as he was certain they were no longer in danger and stepped back. Aragorn lay gasping on the floor, unable to speak for the lingering weakness in his body and Tanathel held him close for a moment. She felt his breathing ease somewhat; Gríma's spells were fading, allowing him to find rest and perhaps a measure of peace. The Evenstar held its light steady, and Tanathel took comfort from it as well. If her King were still in any danger, she had no doubt the jewel would be attempting to draw attention to itself.

She rose unsteadily, stepping back from Aragorn to allow Boromir closer, knowing the Captain-General would wish to reassure himself as well. She let her gaze flit about the room until it landed upon Gríma. He was restrained by two strapping members of the Tower Guard, though their names escaped her at the moment. A fold of his own ragged cloak had been used as a makeshift gag, and the sight reassured her somewhat. Then her eyes found Boromir's where he knelt holding the now senseless King, and she stiffened her resolve.

"You must see to the King," she said simply. "He is weakened from his struggle and near starvation, from his account. I must be out of the City before dawn, as I was ordered. You can find me in Northern Ithilien near Hellengate."

Boromir nodded crisply, though he did not agree. However, it was not his decision to make or unmake; Aragorn had passed sentence and he was bound by duty to enforce it. "I will send word when I may," he said softly, his gaze intense. "Go, now, and quickly."

Tanathel nodded and hurried away, moving quickly down through the City and out the postern gate before the sun could truly rise. Boromir watched her out of sight while his men rigged a litter to carry Aragorn, and then he rose and turned to them, his heart troubled. "We'll get him back to his Apartments. Find Calas and bring him as well. And take that---" he gestured to Grima "---to the dungeons. He is to have no contact with anyone, nor is that gag to be removed or his hands unbound. He is to be under guard constantly. Never let him out of sight or hearing." He ground to a stop, his fury nearly boundless. "We will hold him until the King can pass judgment upon him."

**TBC**


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but has decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly at Thanks a bunch!**

**This chapter specifically dedicated to Dread Lady Freya, who taught me that it's okay to "squeeeeeeeeeee" occasionally.**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Tanathel shaded her eyes against the sun as she watched the rider come down the track toward the farm. Visitors weren't usually the norm; she'd been here long enough now to know. Corvin's parents were quite happy to have another adult around the place, truth to tell; Declan, while not in the baby-talk stage, was still young enough to give his mother fits when he thought he could get away with it. Having Tanathel there seemed to put a curb on his more explosive outbursts of temper, as though he wanted to impress her with his manners.

She moved forward as the rider neared the house and recognized him as one of the messengers on the run to Henneth Annun. "Ingold, this is a bit off your path, isn't it?" she asked pointedly. She was starving for news from the City, but didn't want to seem needy. Bollocks, it really didn't matter. They'd served together; he'd know anyway. She gave him a grin. "I don't suppose you've a moment to pass in conversation?"

"I do, and you can have it the moment my horse has drunk a bit." He led the mare forward to the trough, holding her reins lightly while she drank and taking the mug Tanathel offered him gratefully. He then nodded to Eleca and Gorlin, who had come from the house at his approach. "My thanks for the hospitality," he said carefully. "Got your letter from the boy right here. And Tanathel, I've a message for you as well." He handed both of the parchments over, noting the surprise with which Tanathel greeted her letter. "Now, I've got to be moving on. I'll stop in on the way back through, like always. I'll pick up messages then." He swung aboard his mount and gave them a nod of thanks and moved swiftly back onto the track to the fortress.

"We'll keep the boy busy for a time, m'lady," Eleca said with a knowing grin. She had been asked, time and again, not to address Tanathel as "m'lady," but it seemed a hopeless task to stop her and Tanathel had all but given up. "He's got the horses to feed before supper, anyway. You go on, enjoy your letter."

Tanathel gave the woman a distracted grin and moved over to the fence, climbing to sit on the top rail as she noted the seal. Boromir's seal! It was about time the oaf had written her! Three weeks she'd been here without word.

Carefully she broke the seal and began to read.

_Tanathel,_

_Forgive me for not writing sooner. I believe I told you once, I am not a man of letters. It is difficult for me to set quill to parchment without it dealing with battle plans or troop movements. But for you, I will gladly make an exception._

_Aragorn's anger with you has not cooled, though he continues to recover, just not at the rate Calas would like to see. He believes there may yet be some darkness at work which keeps the King weakened. He is, of course, quite unable to treat a malady that gives no clue to its cause, and it disturbs him greatly to see suffering and not be able to alleviate it._

_Faramir, also, is on the mend. Thank the Valar for that. Eowyn has brought the children to the Citadel while Faramir heals, and while it seems impossible to my mind, they have proved they are quite capable of stirring up as much trouble between them as Fara and I ever did as boys. Elboron is mostly quiet, bookish, like his father. The twins, however, more than make up for their brother's studious ways. Freya and Frela are every bit as headstrong and independent as their mother. They are also determined, even at such a young age, that they should become just like Eowyn and learn the way of the sword. So far, Eowyn has been able to keep them from the sharpened blades, but it seems to be a contest now as to who will outsmart who. Eowyn is ready to strangle them both. (I offered once to assist her and she did not find it at all amusing, though the girls did.)_

_As I sit here, now, and write this letter to you, I feel a great emptiness where you should be. Since you first showed your true mettle to me, in the tunnels beneath the Citadel, you have been at my side, or close enough to call. You have stood by me in battle, and you have given me welcome counsel when asked. But it is more than that._

_There is an emptiness about my days, a dimming of the light, a lessening of the joy of living I have too long taken for granted, and it is all due to your presence in my life. When you are near, it seems my day is brighter, my life fuller, my joy greater than ever I thought it could be. I long for the day you may return to the City... and to me._

_Boromir_

Tanathel considered the letter, her own heart beating with joy at his words to her. Slowly, the rest of the news penetrated her star-struck mind and she reluctantly set aside the personal portion of the missive for the moment. His first words to her had been dutiful, and she would consider what she might do to help him.

Aragorn was still furious at her. Well, she hadn't really expected anything less. Her words to him had been more than simply hurtful. They had been insulting, arrogant, and as sharp as daggers to a heart already wracked with pain and grief. She would hardly blame him if he never forgave her for them. But more darkness in the Citadel? They had thought the problem ended with Grima's capture. What other vile creature or spawn of Udun's pits could possibly be concealed there? She would give it thought.

So Faramir's little darlings wanted to learn sword-play, did they? Give them to her for a week and they would most likely never wish to go near a blade again, much less use one. Her father had been a harsh taskmaster and she had learned from it. So, too, would she teach her own children, if she were blessed with any.

Enough wool-gathering; Boromir had set her a knotty problem to think through and she would give him her thoughts on the subject. And, of course, an answer to his most dearly treasured words to her.

* * *

Boromir scanned through the messages and dutifully set aside the one from Tanathel until he had finished working his way through all the reports he had been given. Troop movements, supply lists, requests for leave, all things that must be dealt with in a timely fashion for an army to run well. Only then would he allow himself to read over her letter.

_Boromir,_

_I am no more a scribe than you are, but like you, I will try. And do not think unkindly of Aragorn for his anger. Truly, I expect nothing less from a man who has had all he ever held dear in his life taken from him by the darkness. My words were thoughtless and uncompromisingly cruel. _

_Tell Calas I have every confidence that he will find the cause and cure this evil that has beset our King._

_On that subject, could Grima have had some secondary lair to practice his wizardry in? Or is there some way he could still be practicing his dark art from the dungeon? He must be ungagged to eat, unless you have kept him without food or water and I do not think you so cruel as that, not even to the Worm._

_I am also pleased to hear your brother is healing well. It seems he will need all his strength to deal with the twins._

_Your words touched me deeply. I, too, feel empty and alone when faced with my days without you. I find myself thinking of you at odd moments, feeling the touch of your hand upon mine, of the way you held me close when I was deep in despair. Of your tender concern for my safety while we were both in the South, the touch of your fingers against my face, even so small a cut as it was, still you noticed._

_I must confess to you, my heart withered inside me when I looked back and saw the great burning of the garrison. I thought surely you had perished, that all of the men there had died but in truth it was your loss that grieved me most. For the first time, I thought of what it would mean to **me **before I thought of the loss to Gondor's army. And the sight of you, riding so openly and so obviously unharmed on your return, made my heart soar. _

_I, too, long for the day I may return to the City, and to you._

_Tanathel_

He allowed himself to bask in the warmth of her words for only a moment. She had only confirmed what he had suspected, that perhaps Grima was still affecting Aragorn's health. He had ordered the entire City searched, door to door, not one cupboard was left unsearched nor a stone unturned, and yet Aragorn grew no stronger. What had they missed?

He was reluctant to usurp Aragorn's position, nor Faramir's, but something must be done. He was in the dubious position of being the only one of the three who was fit to take command of the City, and totally unwilling to do so. He took a deep breath. He had been ordering things for days; this was simply another step, and the chain of command could not be broken.

But he would not take that step, not lightly. It was one thing to sign petitions, to promise to look into things, to render judgments upon petty squabbles among the populace. It was quite another to consider bringing a man to trial for treason and witchcraft. Grima must have a fair trial, and Boromir was not entirely certain there were enough objective souls in the City to grant him one. Certainly he had made up his _own _mind. The Worm had tried to _murder _Aragorn, he had seen it with his own eyes, so as a judge he was clearly too biased to be trusted.

He thought perhaps a visit to his King might help him decide what to do. If only Aragorn were strong enough to return to the throne...

* * *

"Your Highness, I must protest!" Calas' voice was raised in dismay as Boromir neared the King's Apartments. "You've not enough strength yet to attempt this. You barely rose from your bed this morning, please, I beg you. Continue to rest until you are healed, or you will be summoning the embalmers instead of me!"

Boromir paused with his hand upraised to knock upon the panel, choosing instead to hear the end of this argument before interrupting. If Aragorn was in any way able to hold his own against the healer, Boromir would gladly return the entire mess into his waiting arms.

"Leave me be, Calas, I am well able to judge my own fitness." The words sounded strong enough. "I am a healer in my own right, as you have been reminded before, and it is past time that I should attempt to heal myself. This malady was not of my own making; but it will control me no longer. I will not allow it."

Boromir heard steps approaching the doorway and rapped quickly, announcing his presence. Aragorn in a mood was not his first choice of things to face this day. On the other hand, it meant he could possibly be rid of this thorny situation with Grima.

"Come!" Aragorn's voice had lost the hesitancy it had contained for the past few weeks and he stood tall and proud as Boromir entered and went to one knee before him. Aragorn quickly drew him up, searching his face and apparently appeased by what he saw there. _"Mae govannen, _Boromir. Report."

Boromir did so immediately, noting the air of suppressed energy about his King, though he made no comment upon it. It was enough to see him no longer appearing frail and wan upon the coverlet of his bed. This, _this _was the man he had come to respect and love as his brother, his King.

He finished his report and stood silent, watching Aragorn ponder the news, which he had not stinted on. He watched as his King paced a moment in silence and then turned back to face him. Calas' presence had been dismissed by the King, and he departed in a huff, murmuring dire warnings under his breath until the distance grew too great to carry them to waiting ears.

Aragorn appeared lost in thought for a moment and then straightened. "Grima cannot be trusted as an exile. He wields far too much power, power that we never dreamed he could possess. He must be dealt with, and quickly, before he brings that power to bear once more." His eyes darkened with remembered sorrow and pain, and the Evenstar's light brightened perceptibly. "I could not long withstand another attempt, Boromir."

Boromir shook his head. "Of course not. But you must not overreach your strength, either! If you begin to tire, you must rest. That is the only condition I have of you, my friend."

"Then I promise to behave myself," Aragorn returned, his voice wry. "I wish to bring Grima to justice immediately; yet there must be no doubt that he deserves his fate. And there are other fates to be decided than Grima's." His step never paused as he began the walk to the Council Chamber. "Have Tanathel returned immediately. She and I have much to discuss, as well." There was a hard, brittle light in his eyes when he spoke of her, and Boromir covered a small start of dismay.

So, Aragorn's wrath had yet to cool on the subject of Tanathel. Regrettable; but perhaps still salvageable. "You are still angry with her, then," Boromir asked quietly as he fell into step with his King. "I do not know what has passed between you; but I know that it was meant to help and not harm."

"We will not discuss her until such time as I am ready to address her, Boromir. Bring her to the Council Chamber as soon as possible."

**TBC**


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.**

**Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.**

**Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.**

**To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.**

**Again, I would like to thank my reviewers individually; but has decided in their wisdom that such a thing just isn't done… so please, if you review, leave an address I can get back to you! Or you are more than welcome to email me directly at Thanks a bunch!**

**Chapter Thirty**

Aragorn watched Grima as he was brought in, his expression unreadable, though his eyes reflected his anger to those who knew him well. He saw the guards chain the Worm into a chair in the center of the cleared chamber, and still he remained silent.

Grima faced him squarely, as though unafraid. It gave Aragorn a moment of concern, that haughty, arrogant stare; was the man mad after all? Surely he knew his fate was now firmly in Aragorn's hands, and it was not likely to be a kind fate, at that. Yet still he met the King's eyes unflinchingly, as though perhaps he knew something Aragorn did not.

Aragorn forced himself to betray none of the unease he felt and approached the prisoner, keeping well back from harm nonetheless. "Grima, son of Galmod, have you anything to say in your defense?"

Grima smiled, an eerie, mocking expression on his haggard, pale face. "It is difficult to respond to you properly, my lord, when I am so restrained," he said softly, his voice full of respect. "Perhaps if I were released from my bonds, I could offer you the respect you deserve as well as answering your questions. Can you not see your way to loosening my bonds even slightly?"

Aragorn hesitated a moment, and then raised a restraining hand as Boromir started forward. "It is a reasonable request, Grima, and yet I do not feel it necessary," Aragorn answered smoothly. He stepped back. "I do not trust you. Have you nothing to say in your defense?"

"In truth, there is little I may say, Your Majesty," Grima oozed conversationally. "Your mind is closed, so hopelessly convinced that I acted in hatred and evil. Can you not see there may have been other reasons for what I have done? The Evenstar, your Queen, she has returned to you, has she not? Did you think she would have returned without some deadly peril to threaten you? No, I see that had not occurred to you. I have reunited you with your lost love. Surely I should not be punished for such a thing?"

Aragorn resisted the insidious pull of Grima's voice, though it was difficult. "What you are to be punished for, Wormtongue, is the attempt on my life. There are many witnesses to what occurred in the Tower. How do you answer them?" His anger was swelling again and he forced it back down. Again it felt as if someone else was controlling his movements, his actions, his very mind. He fought it with all his being and the Evenstar brightened perceptibly. Aragorn cocked his head slightly to one side, as though listening.

Grima licked his lips, the first sign he had shown of nervousness. "You see? As you speak to me, she speaks to you. You cannot slay me now, King Elessar. No matter what I have done, you cannot take my life. It would be condemning your love to death a second time... and this time, she would never return to you."

Aragorn hid his initial reaction to Grima's words, responding instead with a knowing smile. The anger drained from him like it had never been, and the Evenstar gleamed brightly against his tunic. "You have just sealed your fate," he said softly. "I may have given in to despair at her loss, but that despair was deepened by your sorcery. If what you say is true, then I will mourn her as is proper and hold her in my heart until the hour of my death. Arwen would never condone it were I to fade from life as you have attempted to have me do."

He motioned to the others in the Council Chamber, those who had been along the walls to watch, to Boromir who had steadfastly remained at his side through the proceedings. "This is my ruling: That Grima, son of Galmod be taken from this place and hanged for his crimes. Sentence to be carried out immediately." He turned to Boromir. "See that this is done, Boromir, and then return to me here. There is still the matter of Tanathel's disobedience to be judged."

Boromir took no joy in witnessing the execution. Grima was still protesting his innocence of any designs on the King's life, that he had only sought to ease Aragorn's pain, when the platform dropped him into space. It was mercifully quick; Boromir had seen a few hangings where the rope did not break the neck as cleanly as it should and one had to watch as the victim slowly strangled. Thankfully this was not one of those times.

He had glimpsed Tanathel entering the Citadel, bound for the Council Chamber, under guard and yet still seeming to project that air of self-assurance he had come to know and respect. She would be able to hold her own until he returned to hear what his King would say to her. He turned his attention back to the hangman and motioned that he should cut the body down. It would be burned; one such as Wormtongue would never rest within Minas Tirith's splendor. Then he made his way back to the Council Chamber to see what would become of Tanathel.

Tanathel held herself ramrod straight before her King, attempting to keep her composure under his close scrutiny. Dimly, she registered Boromir slipping into the chamber, keeping close to the wall so not to distract the proceedings. Her eyes never wavered, though; her King was due her respect and though she had momentarily taken leave of her senses before, she would not again.

She had knelt quite properly before him when brought into his presence, and he had raised her up, though his expression was carefully blank, giving no hint of what he intended to do with her. She was beginning to worry a bit about her future, and whether or not she even had one. A trickle of sweat began to make its way down her spine and she tried to ignore it.

Aragorn nodded to Boromir and gestured him forward. "As Captain-General, you have a duty to be present at a trial of one of your officers. Do you give me your oath to be an impartial judge in this matter?"

Boromir gave Tanathel a sidelong look before answering, and his eyes were filled with concern before he composed himself. Aragorn was certainly cutting up stiff about this; had Grima managed to continue to affect him? It seemed impossible... and yet it was an explanation. Tanathel had been his friend, and now he was ready to court martial her. It defied belief. "My word as your Captain-General... and your friend," he said softly.

Aragorn nodded and turned his attention back to Tanathel. "Tanathel of Ithilien, you have not once, not twice, but repeatedly been insolent, insulting, and disobedient to your King. Do you deny this?"

"No, Sire, I do not." She kept her voice even, though tension was beginning to show slightly in her stance. Why was he drawing it out? She had been removed from duty, exiled from the City; why had he brought her back to go over her poor behavior?

Aragorn paced in a slow circle around her, studying her, silent. She kept her eyes forward, as any good soldier should do for inspection, though she was certain there was no more soldiering in her future. He was obviously still furious with her, and rightly so. She'd had no right to say those things to him.

He came to a stop directly before her and she kept her gaze level, though it was an effort not to make eye contact and allow her fear to show. All she knew was soldiering. If he took that from her, what was left? An existence with a lonely, bitter old woman who had resented her from the day she was born. She wanted to plead for mercy, but her pride wouldn't allow it.

At first, his words didn't penetrate her fear-numbed mind. "For your insolence and insults, Tanathel, you are forgiven. I realize that you were acting in my best interests at the time; no blame lies with you. But for your failure to follow orders, you must leave the Army. There is no place there for those who will not obey their commander. You may, however, remain in the City; your banishment was an error in judgment I would make right, if I may."

Tanathel gave him a curt nod, still maintaining eyes front. She hoped he couldn't see the tears she was trying desperately not to let fall. Her one fear was coming true; she was being denied the chance to serve her King in the only way she knew. She was a trained warrior; how could she now adjust to a simple life? She had no skills other than the ones she had been taught; but use of a sword, bow, even her punching blades was forbidden to her now. Despair threatened to overwhelm her.

Boromir couldn't believe his ears. Aragorn seemed to be himself once more, but his punishment of Tanathel seemed unjustly cruel. He drew in breath to speak, and then curbed the impulse. He had given his word to be impartial, so he would hold his tongue until bidden to speak.

Aragorn finally relented; he could no longer bear the desolation, the despair in those dark eyes that would not meet his. "Tanathel of Ithilien, this then is your sentence. I would have you leave Gondor's Army and take complete command of the King's Guard. You shall hold rank equal to the Captain-General and will be answerable only to me. Choose who you will for your ranks." He took in the relief in her eyes and gave her a slight smile. "Always your actions have been in Gondor's best interest, my friend," he explained softly. "Even when you raged at me, stormed at me, it was in hopes of shocking me back to myself. You have given much in service to Gondor, and much in friendship to me. And even at the height of my despair, you came to my aid, unbidden, unlooked for, and saved me from certain death at the hands of Grima Wormtongue. This is my gift to you; all is forgiven, my friend."

Tanathel kept a professional demeanor, though her eyes spoke of her relief and joy. "And I thank you for that gift, Sire. My service and loyalty have ever been to you, and to no other. And I will assume my new duties with all the dedication that you have come to expect from me." She allowed Aragorn to draw her into a friendly embrace and whispered, "Thank you, my friend."

Aragorn stepped back with a twinkle in his eyes. "Then let us _all_ put these troubled days behind us as much as possible. We will use today to remember fallen friends, and what it has cost to keep Gondor protected; and tomorrow we will begin the process of rebuilding from so much strife. Today, I declare a holiday. Go, and rejoice that we are free; tomorrow is soon enough to worry about our borders."

He knew it wasn't, not really; but these people, all of them, HIS people, deserved one day free from disquiet. The Haradrim would still be there in the morning; and he had scouts out to report on their movements. They would have warning if something untoward occurred. For now, he meant to enjoy the bright sunshine of this beautiful spring morning. And, if his surmise was correct, there were a few others who could do with some time to plan for their futures.

He watched as Boromir and Tanathel strode away, both appearing professional but with an air of suppressed excitement about them he doubted anyone else would notice. Faramir would, perhaps, but only because he was tuned to Boromir in a way only a brother could be. Good. They deserved some privacy; they would certainly have none when word of their courtship leaked out. Many young hopefuls of the court would be devastated; and not a few of the Rangers Tanathel had served with in Ithilien. But he found nothing to complain of in the match. Indeed, he had rather adroitly fostered it himself; he had removed Tanathel from the Chain of Command so there would be no complaint of favoritism once they were wed.

He made his way to the lower circles and whistled. Brego had not been ridden in several days; it was time he showed his horse some attention.

**To Be Continued in the Next Story! Sequel Under Construction!**


End file.
